Please read and see what you think :)?

Pick faults I dont mind! I wrote this in about 20 minutes so it could probably do with lots of corrections!

The pavilion stood half-erect and empty, its prior grandeur now long diminished – a mirror image of the partly-demolished manor, two hundred feet away, the whole of its west-wing collapsed beneath the mighty figure of a man lying, still and blue with cold. Small fires still burnt behind some of the windows in the east-wing where the building was seemingly untouched, the ochre orbs adding light and a delusion of warmth to the steadily-darkening parkland surrounding the house. Much of the parkland, however, was in thick shadow and was out of view of the house. A figure, drenched more deeply in black than the shadows surrounding him, edged around the concealed lawns beneath the trees. His eyes were watchful, careful and he froze with every tiny noise or movement around himself, following out cautious steps after identifying the source. Suddenly he broke out from under the trees and streaked, quicker than a fox, across the vast lawn below the house. He headed straight for the pavilion, stealing into the darkness beneath it and crouching behind one of the remaining intact pillars, glancing around for disturbance. All was quiet.

He stood, leaning against the pillar, breathing heavily. His chest rose painfully with every breath and, as he tenderly clutched his ribs he realised that they must have been broken earlier along with his still throbbing nose. The warm, trickling sensation had ended however, a good sign: he couldn’t afford to loose anymore blood. His head still spun slightly and he squeezed his eyes shut, pressing into them with the heels of his hands. His cool skin was a relief.

His eyes snapped open again and he jumped as he felt a warm, slightly moist breath on his cheek. Hands wrapped around his middle, holding his fast to the pillar and he was sickened to the stomach as a powerful stench of burning hair wafted over him.

“Good evening, Feverel.” The man’s voice was deep, rasping and slightly hoarse, as though he had been shouting excessively and had now lost it. The sense of intimidation his voice usually cast over his victim seemed to evade and, though Feverel’s heart was thumping in his chest and his stomach was seemingly clamped to his spine, he wasn’t afraid. He had been about to respond but closed his mouth again, pressing his lips together tightly, thinking hard. The other man continued to speak.

“Got you now, ‘ent we, little man! What will Lord say when I return with your ‘ead in me hand, eh? Oh there’s a lot ‘o gold waiting, a lot ‘o gold. Much more than a little thug like you could ever imagine…” He was off, muttering to himself about how he would spend it and how he was going to make sure that “Lord” promoted him, how he would have the respect of the whole commune. Feverel gazed down and saw the cause of the smell: a huge red-raw burn stretched up the man’s thick forearm, glazed slightly with a thick, unidentifiable fluid. Hopefully poison, Feverel thought, slipping his hand into his coat pocket. The thoughtless brute restraining him had left much of his arms free to move and, as he was still talking to himself with gormless, fixated look of excitement on his face, he didn’t notice as Feverel slipped a small slick of silver out of his thick fleece and conceal it in his hand, leaving the tip pointing out of the bottom, beneath his fingers.

“…so shall we say sweet dreams then?” the man gloated, a horrible grin etched across his face. He removed one of his hands from Feverel’s middle to draw out his blade (the strength pinning him to the pillar doubled under his single hand) and Feverel quickly took the sudden opportunity to ram his knife, as hard as he could, into the man’s thigh, pushing it deep into the thick flesh. The man’s voice was so hoarse he could barely scream in pain, and Feverel seized his moment of weakness and took off into the night.