last month, Christine at The Writer's Hole mentioned the Last Line Blogfest. i was intrigued, but couldn't think of a last line (from a scene, chapter, or end of the book) that i wanted to contribute, so i forgot about it. then i read about it at Abby Annis's blog the other day, and i still didn't think about playing along. but today, on the spur of the moment, i thought, "might as well," and started digging around in my 2nd draft for Blackheart.
now, to be honest, i didn't really write the scene this comes from. my 16 year old son did. i just typed it and tweaked it. he came up with the character and the motivation and the action. he's quite the storyteller.
so, here it is, in 2nd draft form, the end of a scene from Blackheart. (for more Blackheart tidbits, you can go here: Teasers.)
A horn sounded. By now the Baraca had probably found their dead guards. A hasty exit was in order, but rage still pounded in his ears. Dar’vosh was in the mood to kill something.
He ran down the stairs and stood by the window he’d entered. He lifted his crossbow, aiming at the first Baraca guard he saw. He pulled the trigger. The man dropped in a heap. Another guard looked at his dead comrade, then up to the window where Dar’vosh stood. Dar'vosh watched in satisfaction as the shaft barreled towards the man’s forehead.
A door opened from somewhere below. Dar'vosh heard the clomp of heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. He fitted another bolt to his crossbow and turned it towards the doorway, shooting the first soldier who came through. He slung his crossbow over his shoulder and wrenched his sword from its sheath.
The corridor was just large enough for two men to walk abreast. The first two challenged him. Dar’vosh parried them both with one sword. He cleaved one from shoulder to lung, and kicked the other down the stairs.
All the guards behind him tumbled down with him. Dar’vosh pulled one of his throwing knives and hurled it with deadly precision at one of the struggling guards. Dar’vosh leapt down the stairs, cutting and slashing as he went. Whether on the ground or trying with little success to stand, no one survived.
Dar’vosh yanked his knife out of the choking guard’s throat, wiped it on his tunic, and slid it back in its sheath. He ran through the entrance at the bottom of the stairs and mounted one of the horses. It screamed in terror and tried to throw him, but Dar'vosh controlled it with a heavy hand. He retrieved a flaming stick from a fire and rode through the camp, setting it to blazes. A man rushed out of a burning hut, sword drawn. Dar’vosh raised his sword and smiled.