The Devil's Opera(163)

Several of the men drew knives at that. Hans blessed Frau Anna yet again for the heavy coat, the gloves, and even the wrappings around his ribs. He didn’t expect them to keep him alive to see the dawn, but they would keep him alive longer; long enough to put paid to this pack, perhaps. He trusted Chieske and Hoch to take down Schardius, but he was going to make sure that the devil’s tools before him didn’t return to their master.

He had no fear, he realized. None. He knew he was going to die here. But every one of these men that he took with him was one less that could threaten his sister. And at that thought, a white heat filled him.

“Come on, boys,” he taunted them. “Either come take me now, or crawl home to your holes as craven curs!”

* * *

The fight didn’t last long. Fights with those kinds of odds seldom do. And to an outside observer, it would have seemed just an extended flurry of grabs and hits. But to Hans, time seemed to slow down as he prepared to sell himself dearly.

The first man to die didn’t see the walking stick in Hans’ hand until right before it rammed through his eye and into his brain. He dropped with a choked scream, fouling the footing for those who followed him. Unfortunately, the walking stick wedged in the eye socket. Hans cursed as he had to release it.

The second man came from the left. His knife snagged in Hans’ coat. Hans reached out and grabbed the man’s shoulder, then delivered two rapid hammer blows to the attacker; one of them smashed out several teeth and the other might have broken his jaw. Hans pushed him back to fall over the body of the dead man.

The third attacker had tripped over the dead body. His knife lunge missed Hans entirely. But his body didn’t. Off-balance, he tripped again and fell into Han’s right side, with his shoulder landing squarely atop the broken rib.

“Ungh!”

White fire sheeted through Han’s mind as pain blazed throughout his body. He fell back against the wall behind him, and for a moment that support was the only thing keeping him on his feet.

But even as Hans grappled with the pain, his hands seemed to move of their own accord as they grabbed the man’s head and twisted.

The third attacker dropped at his feet, head looking back over his shoulder.

There was a brief pause as the others drew back a step or two. Hans breathed heavily, air rasping in and out of his throat. Hunched over the pain, he stepped his left foot forward a bit and turned his right side away from the attackers. He knew he couldn’t take another hit like that last one.

They stared at each other in the moonlight; Hans on one side and Ernst Mann and his remaining cohort facing him across a puddle of moonlight.

“So, it is down to you, Ernst,” Hans rasped. “You and Otto and Jurgen and Wilhelm. Are you enough? Are you enough to do what that devil Schardius has ordered?”

“We are,” Ernst replied in his cold voice.

The warehouse manager beckoned the others close.

While they whispered, Hans breathed deeply, sucking in as much of the cold air as he could. He could feel the sweat beading up on his back, chilling in the cold. He had lost his hat, and could feel the night breeze off the river stirring his hair. He glanced up for the barest of moments to see the moon sailing above him.

A good night to die, he decided.

Hans drew himself up as the others separated, spreading out as much as the angle of the walls allowed. He beckoned to them.

“Come and get me.”

* * *

The last of the fight was short and savage. Otto launched himself from the far left, making cuts and lunges with his knife that at first were blunted by the heavy coat. Jurgen stood to the front and swung fists at Hans’ face and head. Wilhelm came from the far right and somehow managed to snake his arm around Hans’ throat, attempting to choke him.

Hans had no choice. He kept his left hand and arm raised somewhat to shield the knife. The fists he just had to duck or ignore, because the arm around his throat had to go. He reached up and began breaking fingers. Wilhelm grunted as the first one snapped, hissed with pain when the second followed. When the third followed, he bellowed and tried to push away.

Hans reached back and grabbed Wilhelm by the hair, hauling him around in front of him to take a couple of hits from Jurgen’s hard fists while he gathered himself. Then he threw Wilhelm to the ground and kicked him in the head—possibly hard enough to kill him; certainly hard enough to take him out of the fight. Then Hans threw fists at Jurgen and Otto. Some landed, some did not. He felt some stinging places where Otto’s knife had penetrated the coat or the rib wrappings. He could feel blood trickling down his face from where Jurgen had reopened some of the cuts he had sustained in the fight with Recke. But he was still on his feet, still taking and dealing damage. The night was not over.