Heretics And Sheep

3: It Is Denoted...

A rummage through sand, a coarse hand placed on metal and a crackle like thunder. Marcus was freed, and the strange bronze peeled off of him as he breathed in his place.

"Mae'dinoi Of Old. It is said to be unbreakable to the hazards of this world but vulnerable to the hand of man... I know you could free yourself. You do not deceive me."

Marcus took in the new world. A mound of sand tall enough to swallow a person whole stood where he'd been held. Even now, he was shin-deep in it. He turned to Barabbas. The man was older than Marcus but very much in his prime. His slender moustache and thin goatee implied experience and grit. His sharp, focused eyes confirmed it. Marcus was familiar with that stare. It was something never seen inside his old Kung-Fu classes but rather out on the streets, out on those who lurked. These were the eyes of a killer. A killer ready to re-offend.

"I need to get my head in the game, this guys the real deal." Marcus thought.

Barabbas ignored this, instead, paced backwards, his boots crushing loose gravel to dust. He looked at home within this sand cavern. From within his cloak, he produced a knife and threw it to Marcus. He twitched in response, almost lunging at his opponent.

"A duel with knives then? Shit."

This was not Marcus's strong suit. He knew what must be done and thus picked up the dagger, hiding his reluctance. The blade was made in the new world, but its quality didn't look it; it was firm and ornate, curving at the tip and guard with blood thirst. The handle was shaped for a steady hand. It felt snug in Marcus's.

He exhaled deeply and faced his opponent.

"We need not fight; how about we talk things through." A last-ditch effort. Barabbas disapproved.

"Those who are born of mae'dinoi will lead us into heaven. It is denoted as such. It is nonsense! It is..."

"Superstition." The last word Barabbas spoke was foreign to him and mispronounced. However, his message was clear.

"I will bring them your head and shit on their divination!"

Barabbas calmed himself and looked his opponent in the eyes. He pointed to Marcus with his knife.

"Water me with thy blood." Barabbas invited.

"Feed me with thy flesh." Marcus accepted.

Barabbas twirled his knife. It slid across his fingers till it found its resting place: in his palm, with a slap. Marcus's grip relaxed. The whites in his knuckles faded as he circled the fighter before him, looking for space. Barabbas approached, slicing at the air, fainting attacks till he got in range for a kick; he threw it forward.

"His speed!" Marcus had less than a third of a second to be surprised before he was hit across the cavern.

It was slightly bigger than his room, but he was still in his home. Or what was left of it? That was his advantage.

"I can react to it? How?" Marcus's reaction time confused him. He had blocked the kick with his arms faster than he could think. They were unscathed.

Barabbas cocked his head to the side, his long, messy hair moving with it.

"Incredible... I will give one thing to those old bastardi. -Those who are born of mae'dinoi will have bodies of hard like your fellow nomad. It is... denoted."

Marcus did not understand. He replied with a backstep and a handful of sand; it proved ineffective against the desert man.

Barabbas lunged forward with his knife bearing its curved tooth. Marcus saved himself with a sidestep but played into his opponent's hands. He was grabbed by both arms. They struggled against each other, knife hands pinned, thoughts racing aloud.

Marcus considered a headbutt. This would be a mistake. When he threw it, Barabbas was ready, and he used that momentum to break free of their lock, slicing at Marcus's underarm. The bleeding stung, yet he sensed no lacerations. His leather jacket had served its new purpose. He replied with a thrust at Barabbas's jugular. It was dodged while Marcus used the awkward positioning to land an elbow.

He breathed out, and their fight reached the ten-second mark. Marcus kept the pressure up, ducking under a slash from his right and throwing his knife to his left arm in one fluid motion. He picked up a rock and bashed it against his opponent. Barabbas blocked with his forearm, slightly staggered.

"Not bad foreigner," he said in his mind. They both heard it.

Marcus ignored all thought and went in for a stab with his left. It was met with Barabbas's own blade. Whilst he was met with Marcus's right elbow. Marcus, running on instinct and adrenaline, pushed Barabbas off of him to what used to be a wall. He, however, used this as an opportunity to disarm Marcus of his blade, flicking the knife out of his hand during the tiniest opening. Barabbas now stood in a pile of sand obscuring some rubble, looking at the foreigner. He had the advantage.

Marcus didn't let things stay that way. He charged at him. Barabbas was surprised; the foreigner was picking up momentum. They were both pushed to the floor. Marcus avoided Barabbas's steel in the stumble. The Bedouin was fast with a kick as he got up, striking Marcus in the cheek.

"Iron." Marcus tasted his blood. It did not taste good. It tasted like... defeat.

His eyes widened, his thoughts evaporated as he struck out with an overhand punch. Barabbas barely dodged and, in doing so, stuck his knife into Marcus's leg. He replied with another headbutt; this hurt him more than the desert man, yet it was enough to make him let go of the blade. Marcus bit out a lock of hair from his now shocked opponent, rolling away onto his back. They both got back up. The knife bit into his thigh hard. His blood ran over it. He felt the sensation of both hot and cold in the wound. Marcus grabbed the dagger. A blood vessel in his eye popped as he pulled it out. It sunk into the sand like the other knife, Marcus spat out blood and black hair.

"There was no logic. There was no time for plan or reason but we are both unarmed. I haven't thought about anything in the last minute. All I know is..."

He locked eyes with his opponent. His stance was wide, his fists were aligned like triangles.

"You're on my turf now!"