‘Wish you saved one of those bullets now?’ Markus sneered.
‘You got lucky, punk. Care to try again?’
Markus nodded. Then he launched the same kick a second time. At the last second he adjusted the trajectory of his shin so that the kick swept low under my guard and slammed my ribs. It was some kick: like a baseball bat delivered to a side of beef. I winced, trying to conceal the agony.
‘That puts us on an even keel now,’ he said. ‘You damaged my ribs, I damaged yours.’
I snorted at his bravado. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’
‘Plenty more where that came from,’ Markus crowed.
‘Let’s do it then.’
We both threw a blinding combination of blows, using fists, legs, and elbows, and we were well matched. Knuckles slammed flesh, knees rammed guts and shins whacked each other’s thigh muscles. Within seconds I was bleeding from my mouth, and Markus had a huge bruise growing on his right cheek. Then Markus got in a low sweeping kick, similar to one Rink favoured during his knockdown karate days, and I went down on my back. The fight wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. I threw a kick from the floor, forcing Markus to hop back out of the way. He stood ten feet away, waving me back to my feet.
I lunged up like a gridiron footballer attacking the line of scrimmage. My opponent could easily have avoided the attack, but it appeared he was eager to get to grips with me. We crunched together like sumo wrestlers, each pushing and jostling, grabbing at each other’s clothing. But it was a momentary clash, until I reared back and then drove my forehead directly into Markus’s face. There was a crunch of cartilage and, as we broke apart, Markus’s nose had taken on a new position. Blood flooded over his top lip, looking like oil in the darkness. He swiped at his face with the back of his wrist, then spat blood and mucus on the floor. My blow wasn’t one allowed in a karate tournament, but straight from my soldier’s repertoire. The shape of the battle was about to change.
Earlier I’d called Markus a coward; he proved me wrong in the next instant, because he didn’t lie down but came back at me. If anything the broken nose seemed to spur him to greater action. He threw a couple of looping overhand punches at my head — both missed — but then he drove in with a straight cross that slammed me forcefully. The only thing was that I’d dipped my face at the last second and Markus’s knuckles impacted on my forehead. The forehead is one of the hardest points of the human anatomy — much stronger than the weak metacarpals of a hand. Markus jumped back shaking his hand, and more droplets of inky blood spattered through the bars of starlight streaking the old meeting house. He was swearing, and I saw him glance at his fist and followed the movement. The skin was torn at his knuckles, bone glistening through the ruined flesh. I checked and found a smear of blood on my forehead, but I was confident that this time it was all Markus’s. My skull still felt like a ten-pound hammer had struck it.
If his hand was broken then Markus was now severely hindered, but he saw his fight for what it was: a matter of life or death. He let out a loud bark of anger and threw a kick at my groin. A subtle twist of my body ensured that Markus’s kick missed its intended target, but his foot whacked my inner thigh almost as painfully. His elbow struck with lightning speed, ramming into my ribs. Good job the blow struck my good side or the fight might have ended then. Markus watched as I stumbled away from him, almost losing my footing before I was able to regain my balance. He allowed me the time to right myself. He shook his head in disdain of his enemy; he was actually playing with me.
‘To think that I worried you’d be a deadly opponent,’ he said.
No, not playing, I realised, the bastard only wished to prolong my agony.
‘I’m not done yet,’ I snarled.
It was difficult to breathe, but I sucked it up. Went back at him, throwing a jab kick at his knee that he avoided, but a backhand strike to his face got him full on.
Now it was his turn to back away, while he shook the cobwebs from his head.
‘Worried again?’ I asked.
Markus swung away from me, and I wondered if he was as keen to continue as before. He began glancing around, seeking something to use as a weapon, and I saw his gaze alight on a pile of old furniture stacked in one corner of the room.
‘Do your worst, bastard,’ I said.
‘I’m going to,’ he said, reaching for the pile.
Furniture began to topple as Markus rooted around for something he could wield. He finally spun back holding an old chair with his good hand. It was an ancient thing, and looked like a folding deckchair but made from slats of wood. He swung it at me, but his stance and aim proved ungainly and he missed. I hopped in and threw a kick, demolishing the seat of the chair and leaving Markus holding part of the backrest. Markus let out a grunt of satisfaction; he was now wielding something he could control, a weapon he thought might raise the game in his favour again. He lunged in, stabbing at my throat with the broken spar. Weaving aside I threw a left-right combination into Markus’s face. It snapped the man’s head back but he clubbed at my body and I had to retreat to avoid broken bones. Markus came after me, confident he had me on the run, his club whistling with each swipe. I dodged once more, but struck out with a knife hand blow that impacted with Markus’s wrist. The length of wood spun away and was lost in the shadows at the other side of the large room.
Markus wasn’t deterred. He went immediately into attack mode, landing a kick to my chest, and followed through with a powerful punch to my chin. It caught me squarely, and only the fact that I was moving backwards, riding the force of the blow, saved me serious injury. Galvanised by his success, Markus threw his opposite hand, spearing with his open fingers for my eyes. I twisted under the attack, catching Markus’s extended arm over my shoulder and butting in with my hips, jacking Markus on his locked elbow and spinning him over my shoulder and on to the hard-packed floor. Dust billowed at the impact and Markus let out a hiss like steam escaping a ruptured boiler. Momentarily stunned, he was at my mercy.
But I stepped back.
It was best that I had. Where he’d fallen was in reaching distance of the KA-BAR ditched by Rink earlier, and he snatched it from the floor and swiped at my gut.
He raised an eyebrow my way, licked the blood off his lips and gave me the tiniest of smiles as he rose up from the floor.
I was breathing hard; blood leaked from my nostrils invading my mouth. Each time I exhaled, droplets misted the tiger-striped atmosphere. I glanced once at the junk pile, then back at Markus, but I was loath to move. He stood up straighter, shaking his head.
‘What’s up? You think I’m going to stab you from behind?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past you. I still think you’re a coward.’
‘I’m going to look you in the eyes when you die.’
‘Ditto,’ I claimed.
Markus moved in a blur, his right hand whipping out in a backhand slash that took a flap of skin from my right deltoid as I reared away.
Markus stalked me, laughing as blood flooded my shirtfront.I would have spat on him if I didn’t detest the habit. He adjusted the knife for the coup de grâce. He had a smug sheen to his face; you’d think he was King Arthur and had just drawn Excalibur from the stone judging by the look of satisfaction he exuded. By the way he held the knife, and the way in which he kept it close to his body, he had as much knowledge of knife-fighting as he did of unarmed combat. I hoped that I hadn’t made a huge error in allowing him a go at me.
I was also an accomplished knife fighter, but I was without a weapon. Quickly I ripped off my jacket and shirt and wound them around my left forearm. The blood helped the cloth adhere to my skin. My night vision had now adjusted to the murky interior and my opponent was a silhouette against the monochrome background of decaying walls and trashed furniture. I readied for his attack.