Fights: scifi group project thingie: Fight scene

I decided to make something useful, here's the 'old scene', and a replacement section. It's harder to define the borders of the 'new scene'. They involve the same characters, and it is a fight that is a bit different than normal. Our 15 year old girl is fighting against a highly accomplished swordsman.  Our girl is on a quest to find the world's greatest swordsman, to teach her, so she can defeat the seven bad guys who massacred her entire family. A blood-debt.  

Old scene:

           So the swords' deadly dance begins; he moves, I follow. Ease your weight this way, then there. Feint, send signals; all false. Then strike. Make a thrust of a feint. Slip on a cobble, show no opening. Fast now; the harsh sound of steel trapping steel; a sound like complaining crows. Pull back, jump back. Look there, space or trap? Then it's step up, take a chance, commit your momentum and thrust. Then back. Pull back again. Quick, quick.

           Watch him, watch him. Watch, watch him, watch his sword tips, the little dance.  Watch his hips; how they tilt and sway; the bunching muscles of his calf. His feet, his shoulders, his neck; perfectly aligned to place a thrust. Look for the tell, the tick, the twitch, that would signal a strike. There was nothing. When he made his move, he simply continued his feint, smoothly, extending in a full, long lunge. It was very long, that lunge; his height, his arm and sword length, the fullness of his extension, it was all so long. I was clumsy in comparison, but it mattered not. I jumped back and evaded the thrust. He let me.

           He let me show him what I knew and could do. He led me into a few more passes, then put up his weapons. I thought he understood now, that his test was not such a surprise to me as he'd expected.  

New scene:

            Master Sam was big and strong, as millers are in the nursery rhyme. His round face was clearly unfamiliar with the expression of fear and dismay that sat upon it now. His apron was clean; he hadn't done any milling at all today, without his helpers. He pulled at his beard and picked at something in it, as he struggled with my ideas. I heard the door open again, and spun around to face it. Now, I felt danger.

            It was a man. He was taller than most, and had brown hair and dark eyes; his hair was messed and sweaty, and he wore a coating of road dust, as though he'd been traveling fast. He had a look about him that touched something in my memory; an alarm sounded in my mind. He looked very … competent. His stance was balanced, ready to move in any direction. He looked willing to talk or fight, whichever was required. My first thought was that he was a lot like the man who had kidnapped me; an adept, possibly. Why did I think that? I didn't really know what an adept is.

            I stared hard at him, and moved away from the miller, in case there was trouble. In other ways, the man looked totally different from my captor. Whatever; whoever he was, I wouldn't be taken again, not without a fight. He recognized my intent in moving, and casually put his hand on his hilt. His sword; I hadn't even seen the sword until he did that. Sam Miller looked my way, surprised by my response. Then he looked more carefully at the stranger.

            "Who are you?" the man asked me. I frowned; shouldn't he have spoken to Sam Miller first? I was very careful, keeping watch on my mind, lest he try to take me that way, and on his physical threat. I feared he would try to distract me with his speech.

            "My name is Sara, and this is Sam Miller. What do you want here?" I scowled at him.

            "I suppose you might say I'm looking for trouble. Are you certain you want to be the one to give it to me, child?"

            "I will, if I must. I will not be taken, I warn you."

            "Why would I want a scrawny dirty thing like you?" Insults; to goad me.

            "I have no idea at all, about that, none at all. I have no idea why the last one did, either." My growing fear made me unsheath my sword, and with that, my fate was sealed. I prayed to all the gods to guide my blade and help me. The man stood in front of the door with two swords, like magic. I hadn't seen him draw them.

            I said, "You will not surprise me. I will not be taken again. I will fight, and die if I must." Then, I dashed madly for the door, in hopes that I could get through it before he caught me. I slashed to my right when I neared him, half pivoted, and fumbled at the latch with my empty hand. A sword tip appeared on the latch, while another one blocked mine. I whirled, and ducked back. Now I faced him, and had my dagger out. It would be a fight. He moved a half step toward me, to see if he could drive me back. I danced a half step to the side, and feinted.

            If he would commit to a lunge, I'd try to slip inside his guard, and cut him. That was my plan; it seemed to lack credibility, even to me. He answered each of my moves effortlessly, and kept me moving from side to side. He was on his toes, but never seemed to have to move from his spot in front of the door; I never backed away from him, either. I had practiced all sorts of moves with Ian. I ran each of them through my mind, but none stood out as workable, against this man.

            Soon sweat fell into my eyes, and my grip had grown sweat-slippery. He slashed and thrust; he half lunged, but he never touched me, though he penetrated my guard many times. It actually felt as though I was practicing with Ian again. He was taller than I, much taller, and his sword was longer than mine. I couldn't match his reach; not even close. My lunge did not bring me to his body, only to that sword tip. We were both unmarked. What kind of sword fight leaves neither combatant bloody? He was good, and he was slightly arrogant, subtly showing me my inadequacy.

            He might be toying with me, but I fought in earnest; I feared this man. I feared entrapment. My whole center felt hollow, and ice cold. I kept on. If it seemed that I could not go on any longer, I would run myself onto that sword and die. I struck at his blade with all my skill and strength; he answered each move elegantly and economically. 

            Finally, I saw an opening. I was beginning to slow. If I didn't strike now, I'd never get the chance. I lunged, fully extended, low, and committed to the move, going for the back of his knee. He twitched away, to the side, and I missed him, then he casually trapped my blade, and flicked it from my grip. He used the flat of his other blade to slap my exposed neck.

#

            "Stop!" the man bellowed at me. "Stop fighting, lass. This is ridiculous. You cannot best me. And I have work to do." Yes, and if that work involved kidnapping me?

            "No," there was a shameful quaver to my voice, but I kept on. "No, I will not stop. You will not take me alive."

            "Nonsense. I don't want you; I said that before. You couldn't give yourself to me; I'd refuse delivery. Now let me speak to the miller, will you?"

            "I'm clearly not keeping you from anything."

            "Sam Miller, sir, I have no idea why this child chose to fight with me, but I have no interest in her. I am answering a call from your wise woman, to come here and help you out. What has happened?"

            I started to feel a little silly, moving from foot to foot, circling the tip of my dagger at him, while he stood there, casually talking to the miller. I backed my way to the wall, a few feet from the door. I stood there quietly for a few minutes, after which he ceased to bother with me. He sheathed one sword, and stood with the other held high, across his body. His incredibly fit body. Finally, I leaned back on the wall. I nearly collapsed in relief; exhaustion claimed me completely, now that the fighting appeared to be over. I sighed, and drooped. Some fight it was; but though the swordwork might be over, I was certainly not out of danger, and I must pull myself together again. I must not droop. I was Laird Mac Doud.

            The miller repeated his observations for the man and told him that I'd seen the same thing, when I'd passed through the village in search of the wise woman. That turned the stranger's attention back to me. He turned around and faced me again. His eyes were narrow, and his brow wore deep furrows. His look said I was an anomaly.

            "You, child; explain yourself."

            "You, sir; explain your self, first. You come here in the midst of whatever is happening in the village and you start a fight with me."

            "I was merely defending myself and evaluating your swordwork. That's one of the things the wise woman asked me to do. I had not expected such a welcome from you," he arched a brow at me. I just stood there with my mouth open. He'd expected to find me? Worse and worse.

            Then I worked up my courage and accused him, "You; you're an adept, damn you, admit it. You're after me. Why? Why do you people want me?" I stood away from the wall again. "Why does everyone want me, all of a sudden?"

            "Well, you have me baffled. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why anyone would be interested in you either; adepts, as you say, or Bryde the wise woman. You do look like trouble, a lot of trouble, I'll grant that, but I don't think you're the trouble she summoned me here for. I wish she'd show herself and explain." He put his other sword away and stepped to where the miller leaned against the window frame. He joined Sam, looking out at the bridge and the village.

            He asked Sam a question, and I took the chance. My hand found the latch and I heaved my weight against it, then a throwing knife quivered in the wood an inch from my nose. "Stop. You may not leave until I understand what you have to do with this. You will stay, so please come over here and act civil." I wanted to cry. I pressed my head against the planks of the door, and worked at controlling my expression.  If I could frame a disinterested, neutral expression here, I should earn an award.

            He sounded like someone I knew; I searched my memory for who. Drat. He sounded like the wise woman. I wanted to be free of him. I had to be free of him. I pulled his knife from the door and threw it at him, purposefully wide. I didn't want to skewer the miller by accident. He reached for it, and I heaved on the door again.

            "No," he said, and now I began to feel his power. I knew it! I felt something working in my mind, trying to make me stay.

            I fought it, and resolutely denied it purchase there. Finally, I screamed "NO" back at him, and it was gone, and just as quickly, the man was there beside me, and he pinned my arms to my body. He pulled me across the floor to the window. I could do nothing. He was immensely strong, and he kept his grip on me.

            "You were supposed to walk over here on your own, you know," he looked at me quizzically. "You weren't supposed to be able to resist that call. I may have to ask the wise woman for my money back. So, if I am an adept, as you say, you must be one too, if you could push me away." He watched my expression.