Heretics And Sheep

4: ...Superstition

Across the sand cave, between the duelists, a drip could be heard. The water overflowed slightly, escaping the puddle and sinking to nothing. Marcus and Barabbas were locked in position, unmoving, waiting. The drip persisted.

Again, water reached capacity, breaking surface tension. A flow of aqua once more lost itself to the earth.

Marcus exhaled and struck forward with his left leg. He kicked into the sand and sent a brick to his opponent. Barabbas was focused and cold. He blocked the projectile with his right arm and prepared for Marcus's counter. The foreigner's Superman punch was blocked, and Barabbas returned with a fist. A right hook to the abdomen. Marcus blocked it with his elbow and tried to move into a grapple; the desert dweller did not allow this. Barabbas sent Marcus stumbling back with a kick. He advanced forward with a combination of punches. Marcus was on the back foot but blocked his opponent's punches. He lowered himself and charged the Bedouin. He weaved a punch and pushed him back into place. Blood spurted from his right thigh. They exchanged blows, blocking punches, striking harder with each hit. Marcus's leg bleed continued along with the rhythm of his heart; it raced.

He waited for an opportunity in between their respective strikes. Barabbas pulled Marcus in for a devastating knee, he replied by luring the wanderer to grab his collar. An opportunity presented itself, and Marcus followed through viciously. As Barabbas gripped his t-shirt, Marcus bit down on his fingers and followed through with a straight punch. He tanked Barabbas's knee to the body while his fist hit him square in the jaw. This might've finished his opponent if it weren't for the knee in his gut, slowing him down. Either way, this blow would've killed a weaker man. Barabbas was no weaker man. His eyes flickered, almost losing consciousness. He kept it together.

"He fights like a frenzied forāneq. But I will win."

Marcus had been leading his opponent to where he knew rubble lay in the sand, waiting. The walls of what was once his room had long since fallen. Yet, their bricks rested within the grain. Barabbas threw an overhand to the winded Marcus, ready to finish the fight. He was instead thrown off balance by the hidden rubble in the sand. He didn't trip. He had slowed his trajectory to prevent himself from falling. This was all that Marcus needed. He caught his fist and roared. In one fluid motion, he struck the inside of Barabbas's elbow, stunning the radial nerve, and spun around with his opponent. Marcus dug his hip into the Bedouin and used the momentum to throw him on his back. The moment Barabbas was assured of victory, Marcus changed trajectories. The desert man lay on the ground, winded. He could feel his blood warming the sand where he had been cut by debris. A shard of brick stabbed into the middle of his back, lodged into a rib.

Marcus retained his guard. "The Spring Hip Throw..." He grinned to Barabbas.

"It can't be. The 'ajnabiun was leading me here. I need to move forward. This sting. My rib might be broken. My tooth is loose. No... I cannot lose. I cannot die."

He twirled his legs from right to left, his garms flowing, and used the momentum to return to his feet.

"Running or standing, hesitation is no comfort."

His khaki cloak was darkened and wet around the right side of his body. It spread slowly.

"Standing nor kneeling, hesitation is the end."

He planted his feet. His stance was square, his arms in striking positions. Ready.

"Kneeling and dying, I bring forth all instinct."

Marcus was visibly shaken by this determination. The desert nomad looked forward.

"Instinct, instinct, instinct..."

He breathed out. He came looking for sacred weapons, old weapons. Instead, he found destiny. He understood now. Even in failure, he could laugh from his grave. All he needed to do was to take the foreigner down with him. To prove them wrong...

"Those who are born of mae'dinoi are said to be beyond mortal reach..."

He smirked. Barabbas would drag him down from that pedestal.

Marcus punched his thigh, and the rhythmic sputter of blood calmed. "I need to end things. I can't take another hit to that leg. The only reason I managed to land that throw was because I had him off balance..."

He dug two fingers into his injury. This forced his brain to flood him with more adrenaline. He needed the edge. The risk of infection and blacking out was great. However, the risk posed by Barabbas was far greater. He let out a shaky breath and readied himself. The desert fighter stepped forward. They were within arm's length of each other again. They waited...

Marcus's leading hand twitched. Barabbas shot out a punch towards the foreigner's skull. Marcus shot back to dodge and countered with a question mark kick. Barabbas sidestepped it, only being hit by stray droplets of blood. Marcus had retreated on his back leg, his good leg. He continued to do so as the desert man threw a flurry of strikes. A throat punch didn't reach. A palm strike was weaved. He was advancing in on his opponent. Marcus was running out of space. He blocked and intercepted attacks with his arms, ready to counter. Marcus looked for the moment and found it in a left punch from Barabbas. He hit the extended fist with his own and wrapped his hand around it. He was going in for another grapple. Barabbas would not be bested again. He retorted by spitting his blood and tooth at Marcus.

"Huh!"

He shouldn't have been shocked. But he was shocked nonetheless. That opening landed Barabbas a left straight, sending Marcus onto his ass. As soon as he hit the ground, he dug into it and threw a brick at Barabbas. It missed. However, Marcus was once again on his feet. Barabbas advanced with a leg sweep. Marcus jumped over it. Upon landing, he threw a kick of his own. The Bedouin caught it, throwing him onto the floor. Instead of going for a ground and pound, he picked his knife back up and thrust it at Marcus's head.

He caught the blade centimetres before it cut into his face. Barabbas started to push with both hands onto the foreigner. Marcus shifted his weight. With one reckless motion, he moved his head and pulled Barabbas's hands into the sand. The knife missed his face but cut through the outside of his ear. He didn't even notice the sting. Marcus wrapped his legs around Barabbas's neck. If he would lock a triangle hold, he'd come out on top. Marcus tightened his legs and held his opponent's arms away behind his armpit. Blood spurted from his leg, covering Barabbas in it.

"Not yet." Marcus swore to himself through clenched teeth.

The desert man was a monster. He set aside his worries about breathing and lifted with all his might. He lifted Marcus, still wrapped around him like a snake and slammed him down onto sandstone. Marcus thought that perhaps he had heard the ground beneath him crack. It was him that was cracking.

Marcus lay sprawled in the sand, gasping for air. He reared his head up to face his opponent. Barabbas took two steps back. And then fell to his knees. His knife stuck out of his side.

"When did you do this... I didn't feel it." Barabbas said in his mind.

Marcus got up, still not fully in control of his breath.

"Just before you slammed me. You lost consciousness for a second and your knife grip loosened."

He walked over to the other blade and picked it up. His breath was steady now.

"I am still breathing. Finish it." Barabbas admitted defeat out loud.

Marcus approached him. He listened and noticed the water droplets had stopped. All was calm. He raised the dagger.

Barabbas looked into the sand. "The desert will receive my gift now..."

The dagger came down.

A shadow walks up a mossy staircase. It turns to Barabbas. He nods and puts his hood up. They continue. A third figure is with them at the rear. Skyscrapers lie on their sides. Glass shards lay still in the body of a woman. The sky weeps. Two white birds fly towards the sun. One falls. The shadow watches.