This is a sequence from a novel I worked on for a time, but never managed to get it to work. The structure is steampunk meets lost world. A mole machine has burst up out of the ground in the midst of the hidden city of Geharne. Stalhmor, leader of the Vettsch army force, is confronting the leader of Geharne.
Already hatches were opening in the torso of the steam crocodile as it lurched onto all fours on the floor of the arena, the lower tracks extruding slightly from the hull to support the brute's mass. Soldiers in the turgid grey uniforms of Vettsch were leaping out, swords already flaming in their hands. A few - a very few - Geharnei were wielding their own dull blades in opposition to the invader in their midst. The trained Vettschian troops cut them down without mercy. The drillhead was slowing, its task completed, steam still hissing from the pipework embedded in the hull, the roar of its arrival almost gone.
Stahlmor was on his feet, now, and his sword was in his hand. His blade was pointing at Turaga. "Tell your people to surrender, Turaga." His voice was deceptively soft, the harsh rasp of the Vettschian accent almost inaudible. "Or else my men will have to kill more of you."
Allory's blade was in his hand. "You can't do this, Stahlmor!"
The Vettschian turned slightly, his blade not wavering from the old Geharnei's throat. "Really, Allory? I'm so glad you explained that to me - I might not have realised otherwise."
As always, comments welcomed!