1636 The Devil's Opera (Ring of Fire) (47 page)

Recke wiped his hand across his mouth. When he saw the blood, he growled…or at least, that’s what it sounded like to Simon. The big man hunched his shoulders and stepped up the pace, launching a flurry of punches that had Hans back-stepping and blocking and ducking. Punches landing on his arms and shoulders had Hans twisting. But then the worst one hit; a low blow caught Hans in the groin; he dropped to the canvas, clutching himself. The crowd screamed, Simon among them, and pointed to the Hannover fighter.

Herr Pierpoint jumped in between them and ordered Recke back to his corner. For a moment, it looked to Simon as if the big man was going to throw the referee aside and finish Hans off, but he finally backed away. Pierpoint didn’t take his eyes off Recke, but backed up until he could kneel by Hans. He finally looked at Hans. “Can you continue?” Simon heard him ask.

The fighter put one fist to the ground and pushed himself up. The referee watched him stand, moving in slow motion.

Simon almost wished that Hans would give up. He couldn’t stand to see him hurt anymore. But he knew that Hans would continue.

Hans stood straight, shrugged his shoulders and shook his arms. He took a deep breath and nodded to Pierpoint.

The referee faced Recke. “One more low blow, one more breach of the rules of any kind, and I give the fight to Metzger.” His voice was loud and it carried well out into the crowd. He stared at Recke until the big man nodded. Just as Pierpoint was about to beckon the fighters to resume, the bell rang for the end of the round.

Simon was glad. That gave Hans more time to breathe and try to shake off the effects of the low blow. The boy’s head was spinning. He was gulping great gasps of air himself, trying to keep from spewing or passing out. Gus laid an arm around his shoulders, and he didn’t care.

The bell rang for the next round. Simon flinched in response.

Round followed round; Simon lost count. The evening became a blur. All he could see was Hans taking punch after punch, the new cuts that opened in his cheeks and forehead, the blood that ribboned down his face and dripped on his body.

Hans went down twice more. Each time it took longer to get back to his feet. And each time, as soon as he did get up Recke bored in; pitiless, relentless, ruthless. He was like a game hunter stalking a prize, taking aim with his fists, and watching as his prey weakened.

All Simon could do was watch numbly as his friend endured horrific punishment.

The end seemed near. The crowd was quiet. Simon hadn’t been able to watch during the last round, but when the bell rang at the end of it, he looked to see Hans stagger back to his corner, where he leaned against it, gasping deep breaths. All too quickly the bell rang for whatever round it was. Hans gave a weary push to straighten to his feet and go out to meet his foe.

This time Recke unleashed a blow to the side of Hans’ head. It snapped his head around and he dropped to one knee. Simon came to his feet, hand at his mouth. The crowd, which had grown quiet, burst out in fresh noise. The referee jumped between the two fighters and again sent Recke back to his corner. Once Recke moved, Pierpoint turned and began counting.

Simon looked at his friend, kneeling in the center of the ring. “
Stark
Hans,” slipped from his lips. He took a deep breath and shouted, “
Stark
Hans.” Heads turned near him. “
Stark
Hans,” he shouted again, Gus chiming in.

The third time he shouted other voices joined him.

The fourth time it seemed that half the crowd was shouting.

“
Stark
Hans!
Stark
Hans!
Stark
Hans!”

Everyone was shouting now.

“
STARK
HANS!
STARK
HANS!
STARK
HANS!”

Simon watched even as he shouted at the top of his lungs. Before Herr Pierpoint reached ten Hans rose to his feet. In the glare of the lights he seemed somehow to swell, to be larger than life. When the referee got out of the way, he rushed in and delivered a thunderous blow to Recke’s face, smack on top of his already smashed nose.

The fresh blast of pain must have staggered Recke, for he stopped still for a moment. That was all Hans needed. He became a rapid-fire automaton, throwing punch after punch after punch, all aimed at Recke’s head.

The crowd continued to shout for
Stark
Hans, Simon included. He shook his fist up and down and jigged from foot to foot, all the while shouting and all the while with his gaze glued on his friend’s magnificent return from the brink of defeat.

Blow after blow landed on Recke’s blocky head, snapping it from side to side. Cuts opened, blood poured, his nose was smashed flatter and flatter and spread across his face.

The final blow was an uppercut that seemed to rise from the ground. It landed on Recke’s chin. His head jerked back and he crumpled to the ground.

Hans stood over his foe, glaring at his battered form. It took Herr Pierpoint a moment to get him to move back, then the ten count began and this time there was nothing to stop it.

The crowd erupted in wild cheering. Hans lifted both arms in victory. The cheering resolved into thunderous chants of “
Stark
Hans.
Stark
Hans.
Stark
Hans.”

Simon felt tears in his eyes as he chanted along with everyone else. He saw Hans turn to his side of the ring, look at him and grin. He waved back.

Behind the victor, the defeated Recke stirred. He pushed to his hands and knees, shaking his head, then clambered to his feet where he wobbled a bit. Recke passed a hand in front of his eyes. With each passing moment his vision and his mind obviously began to clear. He shook his head again and saw Hans.

Simon pointed to Recke, trying to shout to Hans to watch out. He couldn’t be heard over the chants of the crowd. Others began to point as well. Hans saw that and began to turn.

Recke screamed and charged, arms spread wide. Simon watched in horror as Hans tried to evade. He spun far enough out of the way that Recke’s hand scraped down his back, leaving bloody furrows.

The Hannoverian plowed into Hans’ corner. Hans was on him before he could turn. The official fight was over and Herr Pierpoint was no longer in charge. What happened now was governed by street law.

Hans grabbed Recke’s hair and slammed his head into the corner post over and over again. When he released Recke, Hans did so only to slam several blows onto his kidneys.

Recke was hurt. He tried to turn around and Hans let him stagger a few steps away from the corner before he kicked the back of the big man’s leg. On one knee, Recke was almost helpless as Hans delivered fists to his face and head. Then Hans threw a kick to his belly and he doubled over.

Hans raised a fist. To Simon it seemed to reach up to the sky. For a split second, no one moved. Then the fist fell like a thunderbolt and hammered the back of Recke’s head.

Recke dropped prone on the canvas. Hans stood over him, fists clenched, chest heaving.

The crowd had gone quiet watching Hans take Recke down. No one doubted that Recke deserved it after his attack, but Hans’ violent response seemed to shock most of the crowd.

Hans toed the form of his foe with his boot. Simon was afraid he was going to give Recke another kick, but Hans spat on him and turned away instead. Tobias tossed Herr Pierpoint the microphone, and he stepped over to Hans and raised his arm.

“The winner,” Pierpoint proclaimed loudly, “and
still
undefeated champion,
Staaark
Haaans Meeetz-geeerrrr!”

* * *

The crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Hans slowly climbed through the ropes and dropped to the ground, where he was immediately mobbed by what seemed like every male in Magdeburg over the age of ten, all shouting and congratulating and clapping him on the shoulder or back.

Simon had been ignoring certain signals from his own body for what seemed like hours. Now that the pressure of the fight was over and his adrenaline was dropping, he became aware that his bladder was about to burst. He turned to Gus. “I’ve got to pee. Watch this and tell Hans I’ll be back in a minute.”

He pushed Hans’ shirt and coat into Gus’ hands and headed for the darkness.

Chapter 54

“Schardius,” Ciclope mused. “A merchant?”

Schmidt nodded.

“This is the man you’ve been trying to ruin all this time?”

Schmidt gave another jerk of his head.

“So what has changed that you want him dead instead of ruined?”

“All those dead men,” Schmidt whispered after a moment. “The
Polizei
will be looking, the CoC will be looking, and Schardius himself will be looking. If the
Polizei
or Schardius find me, I am ruined. If the CoC finds me, I am dead. But I will take Schardius down with me, no matter what.”

“Ah.” Ciclope tilted his head to one side as he considered the man who had brought him and Pietro to Magdeburg; the man who was ultimately responsible for Pietro’s death. “I believe I understand.”

“So will you do it?” Schmidt looked at him with hard eyes.

Ciclope let the silence build, until Schmidt looked ready to explode.

“Yes, I will do it.” He snorted as a look of relief passed over the other man’s face. “Just stay out of his sight until I can deal with him.”

“He has a lot of men around him all the time.”

Ciclope patted the pocket Pietro’s pistol was in.

“I can deal with that.”

* * *

Simon hoped there wasn’t anyone from the CoC around, because he didn’t have time to search for the outhouses they had insisted be built out by the arena. From the sounds he was hearing, he wasn’t the only one who had the same problem.

A couple of minutes later, business done and feeling at least a gallon lighter, he tugged his clothes back into order and started back toward the lights. Just as he was about to step out of a pool of darkness behind one of the light poles, he heard something that made him freeze against the pole, praying that no one could see him.

“You idiot! Couldn’t you have found at least one good fighter in all of the Germanies?” The voice was that of Andreas Schardius. That resonant sound couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else. But the tone was so cold, and the words were so clipped. He didn’t sound anything like he did in the midst of the crowd. Simon shivered. Their voices, which had been quiet at first, were growing louder, like they were walking toward him. He shrank to the bottom of the pole.

“I thought I had.” That had to be Karl Elting, Simon thought. From the tone of his voice, he was angry, too. “That fool Recke was supposed to be the best. God knows I offered him enough to take Metzger out.”

“A fool brought by a fool,” Schardius snarled. Elting tried to object, but Schardius overrode him. “Shut up!”

They moved into Simon’s view. He could see Elting being pushed back by Schardius’ hand around his neck. Now he was afraid to stay, but also afraid to move. Staying won.

“Between the purse and the bets, you’ve cost me enough tonight as it is. Any more mistakes from you—well, after our talk the other day, you know what I would have done to that fool Vogler if the police hadn’t shot him. You’ll envy him if you say another word.” The last was delivered with a snarl that made Thomas shiver again. “We have to get back out there with the crowd. Smile. Be gracious. But don’t think that this is over. You owe me.”

Schardius stomped off, Elting following in his wake trying to explain.

Simon spared a moment for a big sigh, then headed back to Gus.

* * *

“Good job tonight,” Amber announced at the end of the rehearsal. “Tomorrow night’s dress rehearsal, the night after that we’re on for real. Everyone go home and get some rest.”

She watched as the cast and crew grabbed their coats and other things and headed for the door. A few of them still bounced with excitement, but most of them were dragging a little. Long days and nights of rehearsal were beginning to tell on all of them, she thought. It would be a relief to actually go to production.

“It feels like it’s coming together,” Marla said to her as she picked up her music folder.

“Yeah, I think so,” Amber replied, “which is a good thing, considering we raise the curtain in forty-eight hours.”

Amber looked at Marla for a moment, then looked around. Schardius hadn’t come that evening, for which she was thankful. No one else was close. Frau Frontilia and the props manager were getting the props table organized for the next rehearsal, and were definitely out of earshot. No one else was around by now.

“So,” Amber said, “has Herr Schardius come on to you yet?”

Marla shook her head, and said, “Nope. Not a whisper or a touch.”

“Good,” Amber said. “Sorry, I should have warned you even earlier that he might try that.”

“You knew?” Marla’s brows contracted.

“No, I didn’t know for sure he would try anything,” Amber replied. “But I was in community and professional theater for thirty years, girl. I’ve seen men like him before, many times. I even married one of them, God help me. So, no, I didn’t know, but it still wouldn’t surprise me if he tries something even now.”

“If he does, I’ll deal with it,” Marla replied. “He won’t get to first base with me, and if he tries anything he’s liable to be singing soprano right along with Master Andrea.”

Amber smiled. Andrea Abati had a magnificent singing voice with the power of a big man’s lungs to drive it. But the voice itself was a soprano because Abati was a castrato.

“I’ll be okay,” Marla smiled in return. “Promise.”

Amber placed her hands on Marla’s shoulders.

“Okay, but if that changes, you tell me, right?”

Marla laughed. “I’m a big girl, Amber. I can take care of myself.”

* * *

Hans won free from the crowd just as Simon got back to take the clothes from Gus. Seen up close, Hans looked even worse than he did from the ring level. There were several cuts on his face and his brows. Both eyes were blacked and one was almost swollen shut. He leaned a little to one side and winced when he touched a hand to his ribs.