Fight Scene Critique— I got desperate

Okay Mark and anyone else out there who has an opinion. I got desperate enough. Don’t spare me. Here it is.
Quick explanatory note: the MC of this scene just trapped himself in a long hall by tying the doors shut, so the bad guys who are trying to catch him can’t come after him. He’s hoping there’s a back door. But the bad guys apparently have some sort of battering ram, so that’s what all the references to shuddering doors and stretching ropes are. I have already described this hall in detail elsewhere in the story, so some of the setting is taken for granted in this scene.

‘Sliding to a halt on the slick granite floor, Denholm glanced to his left and saw a spear stuck quivering in the long, carven door of the book press, head half embedded therein while the wood about it was splintered in sharp white shards. Good. Whoever had thrown it was now without a weapon save a knife or a sword, and he could handle either or both.
Turning a full circle in the middle of the hall, Denholm swept the place with his eyes, searching for the owner of that spear. There was a flicker of movement behind one of the columns near to the door, and even as Denholm fixed his eyes upon it intently a man clad in the black silken surcoat of the watch leapt out from behind it and ran forward, his sword drawn in his hand. Denholm stood his ground for a moment, then whirled on his heel again and ran as the doors gave another mighty shudder, and daylight showed for a moment between the leaves. He could face one of them, but all of them at once he knew full well to be beyond his skill or strength. Darting up onto the dais at far end of the hall, Denholm heard the running footsteps of the watchman behind him and suddenly reached a decision. He stopped in the middle of the dais and turned, crouching and setting his hands beneath the edge of the low, round table full of scrolls and inkhorns and feathers. The watchman was nearly upon him, and almost before Denholm had gotten a firm grip on the edge of the table the man’s sword came down in a flashing arch, slicing the hazy air and missing Denholm’s head by half an inch. The blade fell lengthwise upon the table and stuck there, embedded in the splintered wood, and the watchman did not have time to recover his balance before Denholm upset the table and all its contents, sending scrolls and parchments and bottles of variegated inks scattering over the hard, polished floor. Some of the inkwells broke, and spreading puddles of greasy ink stained the black granite and the scattered parchments.
Yanking his blade out of the splintered table, the watchman raised it above his head and turned full around in one fluid motion, but Denholm threw himself out of the way of the falling sword and scrambled to his feet, catching up the low chair that Lord Gair had been wont to sit in and using it as a shield to block the watchman’s next blow. He underestimated the other’s skill.
When the watchman saw that his opponent was no longer vulnerable, he lowered the blade he had half raised again and stood uncertainly for a moment, blinking rapidly behind the raised visor of his helm. They stood thus for a moment— hunter and hunted, staring at each other, their bodies tense, each waiting for the other to make some move that would signal the renewal of the conflict. Denholm realized suddenly that the man was very young— his cheeks were smooth, and his dark eyes were clear and watchful beneath his helm. Perhaps it had not been very long since the man had joined the watch. Perhaps it was by his position here that he supported those who were dear to him… perhaps he had a mother who would grieve if he died, and fall upon her knees and plead for his life if she were here. It was strange, Denholm thought suddenly, how the different threads of lives living themselves out in different parts of the world sometimes intersected. What seemed insignificant to one might mean all the world and more to another. One man’s careless actions or lack of wisdom might affect many, many more than he alone.
But Denholm wanted only to get away. Time was precious, and with each second of it that passed the doors weakened, yet he could not turn and flee whilst there was still the peril of being stabbed in the back.
Seeing the young man’s hesitation, the watchman suddenly slipped down into a crouching position and scurried forward beneath the chair that Denholm held, striking with a low, swift blade at Denholm’s legs. Denholm leapt back and dropped the chair, narrowly escaping being slashed across his shins. Throwing himself to the side in his turn, the watchman avoided the falling chair and rose swiftly to his feet, bringing his sword over his head and down in a glancing, flashing loop that was meant to catch Denholm on his right shoulder and sever his arm; at least render it hopelessly crippled. But Denholm was too quick. Darting in under the falling blade, he caught the watchman’s wrist on his forearm and struck it aside, sending the blow glancing wide. The watchman stumbled, off balance, and Denholm seized his sword arm, clamping iron strong fingers over the tendons in the man’s wrist and digging his fingernails through the leather gauntlet and the sleeve of the man’s tunic. The man grunted and fought back, attempting to tear his arm away, but Denholm clung to him with the strength of desperation and set his other hand on the flat of the blade, pushing it slowly but surely down until it pointed at the floor.
At the other end of the hall, the doors jerked and shivered as another blow was dealt them from the outside, and for a moment Denholm thought he saw the forms of men standing impatiently without when the leaves of the door quivered half open, then swayed shut again. Setting his teeth, Denholm bore down on the watchman’s arm with all his strength and suddenly broke away, twisting the arm at the elbow and hitting it aside with his clenched fist as the watchman struggled to right himself. But the watchman refused to drop his weapon. Deciding suddenly that he had no time for this, Denholm drew back a few steps and kicked the man in the stomach even as the man raised his sword clumsily with his twisted arm and struck at him again. The watchman doubled over with a sharp exclamation and let his sword fall clattering to the floor, clutching at his stomach and staggering backwards.’

And… that’s it. What do you think?