Voces y Almas

[El Nuevo Diestro]

Closest to the unexpected rush of the Blackshirts, the Politicians and Younglings both suffered immediate casualties. The Blackshirts whenever possible moved in small groups against individuals, using their collective will to crush defenses and leave them open to having their bond turned from one of equality to one of obedience. The Traditionalists and few independents in their numbers operated only in groups, obviously being directed and commanded by Blackshirts but passive otherwise.

Whenever members of the other factions managed to resist, soul-duels broke out. In some cases, the opponents manifested weapons and engaged in full, if metaphorical, combat. In others they merely sat staring at each other in quiet intensity, pitting their wills against each other.

The added numbers of the Traditionalists gave the Blackshirts significant advantage, especially in the initial confusion. The Younglings suffered the greatest number of casualties early on, before scattering in full disarray and attempting to flee the gathering individually.

The Politicians quickly closed ranks, though not without loss, and steadily fell back before the oncomming onslaught. El Infante himself held off Sea-lion, defeating him singly before another Blackshirt and his Traditionalist servant came to his aid and drove Infante to seek the Politician's line, joining with a nearly fallen compatriot and barely reaching it before another Blackshirt group could overwhelm them.

The Adventurers closed ranks quickly, and the advantage of their position stood them in good stead. It was their own natures, however, which betrayed them. As they saw others snigled out, they broke ranks and sought to aid them. In some cases they succeed, winning allies and adding to their numbers. In other cases....

"Sol! Help shore up the Polititians on that flank! I'm going to get that Youngling!"

"As you say, Mata-Piratas!"

Sol de España virtually glided towards the Politician line, slamming into the back of a Blackshirt leading a Traditionalist and independent attempting to break the Polititian formation. "You won't win this day, Adventurer. This day is ours."

Sol smiled brilliantly, taking time for a jaunty wave of his hand. "The day, maybe, but not this fight, Blackshirt. Your perfidy stands no match against rightness of heart and stoutness of character."

"Your storybook dialogue is very pretty, but you are outnumbered."

"Not quite, not unless you want the Politicians to break through this spot in your line. So your aid is tied up, and you are going to fall," said Sol, manifesting a wicked cut-and-thrust sword. The Blackshirt obliged him and replied by summoning his own blade. They fought then, sword-stroke versus sword-stroke, thrust versus parry, movement countering movement. Sol methodically probed, seeking the limits of his opponent, testing his expertise, feeling for the flaw that must be there. His opponent hardly contented himself to letting Sol have his way, several times attempting an offensive series designed to manuever past Sol's defenses. Sol held steady, once, twice, thrice, before finally sensing more than seeing that the Blackshirt had overextended himself. Closing the distance, he feinted high before plunging his blade, his force of will, deep into his opponent's midsection. Sol felt himself overpower the other's will, and forced him to stand down.

The Politicians had stabilized their line, and were now withdrawing from the gathering place. Sol took the opportunity to look back, and saw his own faction preparing to withdraw as well; with the Politicians gone and Younglings scattered, they would definately not have the numbers to hold back the Blackshirts. Sol moved rapidly to where they were gathered, knowing the departure would be tricky if they wanted to keep any more losses from occuring. Then he looked to where he had last seen Mata-Piratas.

The Youngling had apparently been defeated, but not broken. He lay passive, and appeared to be gathering his strength to make good his escape, though he clearly would have preferred to fight at the side of he who had come to his rescue. Mata-Piratas was a blur, moving faster than ever anyone could while living, throwing the whole of his soul, of his will, into fending off the five who assailed him. That he had fended them, that he was fending them, off this long was a feat almost not credible, and yet that was what he did.

"MATA-PIRATAS!" screamed out Sol, and several in the Adventurer's group turned to look at that plaintative cry.

"To our line, Sol! Hold them together, and win this war they've started! Teach them now and forever what we're made of!"

"We'll get you!"

"NO! We cannot risk anymore, not and have the strength for success. Betrayal has won them today, but it will cost them much! Make them pay that cost. Anyway.....at least this time, my son will see me risk all for him; I could ask for nothing more." The Youngling gathering his strength flinched, a look of pain on his face. "I go now into memory; remember me! Remember this day!"

They did remember. Forever more, the souls there that day on all sides spoke of the gloriously brilliant light that spilled forth as the soul of the man known as Mata-Piratas spent its entire immortal being into a soul-blast directed at his enemies. The two closest were dissipated by the blast, and the rest were left in a faded, tenuous state and blown back. They were in no condition to continue the assault on the Youngling, who managed to crawl to the safety of the Adventurer line as they made good their retreat.

[El Nuevo Diestro]

"I am alone, Diestros."

"Of course you are. Didn't we tell you it would be thus?"

"Y-yes. You told me it would be that way, Diestros."

"That's right. From the fiancee down to the glowing one, you are abandoned."

"But...I.....I mean..."

"You are past the stage you should need to be coddled. You must be able to face raw truth. When we offered to increase the intensity of the soul-bond, so that you could more easily draw knowledge from us, you did learn some neccesary skills....but you also wasted much time on things like greater fluency and knowledge of language. All so you could interact better. We warned you then, didn't we?"

"I...but....yes, Diestros."

"Yes. We did. Other students are flagrant witches, playing with dark and evil things. Are demons or demonic. Alien. Are socially inept, or have shut down. Have become completely different people. Have been...physically rebuilt. Shift and morph into bizarre shapes. And what happens?"

"I..."

"We will tell you what happens. They are welcomed with open arms. They are accepted. The cry goes out 'We must be kind to them! We must help them!' That is what happens. You become more assertive, more direct, however.....and that's all it takes for you to be completely abandoned."

"I dont know, Diestros."

"You do know. You're too smart not to see. We know you feel the abandonment. Who are your companions? Who is your time spent with? Name the names of your inner circle?"

"....there is no one left."

"That's right. Gone, like the fiancee. Replaced, like the soul-switcher. Several have decided you weren't worth the trouble, as if out of all the oddities in this school somehow yours is the one that's unacceptable. No one crying out 'We need to help him!' for you, and you almost expected that, didn't you? Tsk tsk. But of course, plenty willing to lecture or taunt the stupid foreign boy. Even that one, with the potential. Stuck with bracers on her arms like you with the mask; it was almost disgusting your desire for comfort in common ground. But even there the leash of magical masters is preferrable to your company."

"Yes, Diestros."

"We said this is no place for you. There is nothing to keep you. There is not even anyone who would be truly disrupted if you left! So here we are. What's your answer, Diego?"

[El Nuevo Diestro]

"This is horrible."

"Most horrible."

"It is catastrophic, is what it is. An ill-bred, slovenly, undisciplined slip of a guttersnipe captivating him? Pulling him in new directions? It is untenable."

"Agreed. To think that could help lay low our plans."

"Well, if you had been more effective in our initial strike..."

"Don't you point a finger, fool, at least I confronted them head-on. If you hadn't tried hiding behind our enthralled Traditionalists so much..."

"Are you questioning my cour-"

"ENOUGH," bellowed El Puño. "On top of everything else, must you fools bicker amongst yourselves? That is what you do when we need most to pool our strengths and move quickly to assure our victory? I say again to you, fools."

"I take it from your tone you have something to propose, El Puño?"

"As a matter of fact. This one does not seem as brazen, nor headstrong as the last one he dallied with. Whereas pelirroja attempted to handle us head-on, this one seems much less inclined. We need to provoke more direct encounters, preferrably of the unpleasant kind. Once she realizes what she is truly in for, I have doubts that the wastrel will wish to remain around the boy. Even if she isn't scared completely away, it will at least help slow or halt this nonsense before it goes further."

"I point out the obvious complication, Puño; we can have much less direct effect on the boy currently; it exposes our numbers to assault from Adventurers while our will is exerted outwards. The losses we suffered after the incident we pushed too hard and they surprised us...."

"True. And I don't like that the Duelists, however neutral they may be, have been left with more and more of the day-to-day influence because of it. They handle things differently, to say the least. At least the Adventurers are in the same situation. But even so, every time we can slip in tension and conflict, will be another chink in any bond that may be. It is worth the effort. How say you?"

"You speak sense, Puño. Very well. Let us plan."

*********

"This is excellent."

"Most excellent."

"It is a Godsend, is what it is. She is independent, strong, a clear sense of self. Valiant and stalwart, for all her lack of skill. Pulling him in new directions? It is ideal."

"Agreed. This could be just what we need."

"The biggest turn in our direction since the initial strike..."

"Just so! Our counterstrike was good, but this..."

"Exactly. We are in complete agreement as far as that goes."

"I agree, my brethren," crowed Sol de España. "We can well celebrate in the knowledge that this bright young girl shall do greater good than ever she will know for the optimal conclusion of these sad events. And yet, we must take heart from her example, for she is most certainly not passive."

"I take it from your tone you have something to propose, Sol?"

"As a matter of fact. She is key not only for what she is. A 'social butterfly', she said of her own self. Through her, the boy can gather allies to help him find himself. To grow as his path dictates. To fight by his side, whether on the field or in his heart. Already, the seeds of this process are there to be seen. We must ensure they take root and grow."

"I point out the obvious complication, Sol; we can have much less direct effect on the boy currently; it exposes our numbers to assault from Blackshirts while our will is exerted outwards. Our initial losses were hard, and even with our recent victory in breaking their direct influence and ability to whisper directly in his ear at will, we suffered more loss...."

"True. And I find it worrisome that the Duelists have gained so much influence as a result of this hard-held neutrality of theirs. They certainly have their own methods. At least the Blackshirts are in the same situation. But even so, every time we can increase the strength of any bonds formed, we move the boy towards where he should be. It is worth the effort. How say you?"

"You speak sense, Sol. Very well. Let us plan."

*********

"Well?"

"Possible sparring with new partners. Learning lessons from ancient swordsmen. Teaching, of all things, possibly spreading the tenets. None of that opposed."

"Good tidings. And the feuders?"

"Embroiled in their plots, no doubt. His newly growing involvement will no doubt occupy them. But the recent offensive narrowed their gap somewhat, and things almost seem to have fallen into temporary stalemate."

"That won't last."

"Of course not. Both sides are much too hot to remain in this slower, methodical state of conflict."

"We'll leave them to that, then. Meanwhile, we shall continue exerting our guidance. Both sides are as unaware of our long-term goals, thanks to our security and stability, as they are unable to stop them."

"As you say, Colibrí."

[El Nuevo Diestro]

"How can you not agree she is completely unworthy?"

"Because we are not biased. She is not without merit. The training shall determine our further opinion."

"I was not aware you Duelists were so optimistic. How much progress do you think she will really make? How much do you think she can really make?"

"Students often surprise. And if not, the investment is fairly minimal."

"Not if it takes vital time away from the boy."

"Be that as it may, there are hardly so many followers of Destreza that potential can be overlooked."

"Standards have certainly declined since my day."

"Alot has changed since your day. It is the way of things."

"And all too little change is for the better. If nothing else, it is too late to completely break her of reliance on her...abilities. That is an errant variable."

"Then it is a good thing we are well versed in balancing equations."

"So you will not reconsider?"

"For the moment, no."

"As you will, then. I have tarried too long. Good bye."

"Goodbye."

The Blackshirt representative faded from their presence, and the Duelists stood silent a moment, regarding each other. "His words can't be entirely discounted."

"No, they can't. For ones so used to accomplishing goals through sheer force, the Blackshirts can be surprisingly persuasive."

"Which requires ever more caution on our part at heeding their words."

"They have always been best at detecting flaws and weakness; it has helped make them strong. So we both must consider flaws they see in the beginner seriously, and be wary of falling prey to a percieved weakness they see in us."

"Things progress in earnest."

"Indeed, and we cannot forget that though we command great respect and fear, we cannot squander strength or numbers; we are few compared to other groups."

"So now we've considered possible stumbling blocks, does it alter things significantly?" They each considered this for a moment. Concensus was not long in coming. Their focus sharp as a sword's edge, it rarely was.

[El Nuevo Diestro]

"How can you do this, Asvaldo? You can't do this!"

"I am doing this, Miguel. Another pass, and I will have done it. You were never as good with the blades as me; it is part of why I was chosen to bear the role and you were not."

"Maybe. And now you're betraying all you stood for. All we stood for. At least now I know, I would have been the right choice."

"Hardly. This just proves my ultimate superiority. To you. To my predecessors. I will be eternal. If you and all the other fools had embraced this as I have, we could have been an unstoppable phalanx of eternal swordsmen."

"Is that what that whore of Satan you rut with told you? Is that how she stole your soul?" A twitch of muscle, and glint of steel. The clash of metal on metal, and Miguel's rapier fell to the floor.

"You'll regret that before you leave this mortal coil. Just like the charlatans who excommunicated us did." Asvaldo's sword flashed, and Miguel groaned in pain. "She's lived with her power--grown it--since the day she was born. How could she be other than what she is? And she has shared it with me. Oh yes. And it is glorious! I will be immortal. And the only price..."

"Only! You have killed family! Are killing family! She would have you wipe us from the Earth, cut you off from the world, from your humanity, to be possessed only by her!"

"Your ignorance shames me. By paying the Reaper a sacrifice of familial blood, I shall earn lifetimes. By that same token, I cannot then wipe the family from the Earth; I will need them for further sacrifice when the lifetimes I've earned thus far run out. "

"Can you hear yourself! What kind of m-monster have you b-become!" Miguel spoke desperately, pushing through the pain assailing him.

"An immortal kind. A powerful kind. But if it's any comfort, you won't have much longer to worry about it."

"I don't understand how her twisted magics have d-done this t-to you....you were chosen heir of the legacy...n-nineteenth of our l-line...."

"Now I am my own legacy. Goodbye Miguel. I go now to destroy the last remaining members of my former Order. I will endeavor to make good use of your lifetime."

********************

"Butchering madman! You will be stopped! I will stop you!" He was nearly out of breath, but kept pressing every possible opening and weakness his honed combat senses could detect. His opponent, however, seemed as cool and collected as he had been when they had first drawn swords.

"Bold words." Another series of blows were exchanged, the dark intruder once more fending off a deft combination by his determined opponent.

"Boldness, if it is such, that was earned in victory after victory. I already brought down the coven you allied with. And you were defeated before, Espectro; you may be back, but you shall be defeated again!" He took a different tact, then, slashing wide at the sinister swordsman's blade. "Your crimes will be avenged! My family will be avenged, you murderer! God help me, I will make you pay!" With that declaration, he cut across a diagonal arc and lashed out with his leg, catching him behind the knee.

The dark spectre went down, but managed to swing out with his off-hand dagger and catch his opponent in the calf. His opponent managed to twist away as he also dropped to a knee, then lunged quickly before the spectral swordsman could bring his rapier to bear. As they began to tumble, they both lost their rapiers, flailing with fists. They twisted their off-hands, trying to bring their parrying daggers to bear, but each knew the other was attempting the same thing and they countered each other, time and again.

"You are a rather spirited choice for the role, I"ll give you that..oof!"

"You are a horrid perverted spirit! A stain on everything I hold dear! The killer of my wife and children!"

"Be that as it may, the magic that empowers me is more than you could hope to be. You won't win; can't win!"

But finally the spectral swordsman's opponent saw the critical weakness that would allow him to finish the fight, to get his revenge. To stop this great threat. Diestros, he thought to the souls who had been allowing him to counter the magic-fueled attacker with which he grappled. One last task; one last duty. One last fight. Help me strike true!

El Puño let go of the spectral swordsman's dagger hand and punched him hard enough to momentarily distract him, and won his own dagger free. As the spectre's tainted steel slid between two of his ribs, Puño drove his own upwards into the head of dark figure. Cold and numbness began to course over his skin, and he let go of who he was, and embraced he voices within him, joining them as never before, and recited: "In the Name of Jesus Christ, our God and Lord,of Blessed Michael the Archangel, of all the Saints. We drive you from us, unclean spirit, satanic power, infernal invader! May you be snatched away and driven from the Church of God and from the souls made to the image and likeness of God and redeemed by the Precious Blood of the Divine Lamb! Begone! Begone! BEGONE!"

********************

"It's too late, Espectro," said the Diestro, spitting blood. "The ritual will be complete."

"It wont stop me from claiming you. You are mine. And even if this works, I"ll be back. Just like before."

The Diestro smiled a grim smile. "I have done my-" a short series of blood-spattered coughs cut into his sentence "-my part. As my predecessors have. As we always will."

The magical energies wielded by the Diestro's companions began to visually manifest, swirling around the dark form, but he seemed undaunted. "Don't be so sure. 'Always' is a long time for a short-lived thing like yourself to talk about." The malevolent glee virtually exuded from him. "Shorter-lived now, it seems."

As the dark form was more and more hemmed in by the rotating magical energies, the Diestro finally let himself fall to a knee with an unconscious groan. "And you have much confidence for someone who has been defeated as many times as you, Espectro."

"I always come back; I always claim what I want."

The edges of the Diestro's vision began to blacken. Speaking felt distant, unreal. But his enemy was almost defeated; he would not let him get the last word. "Keep telling yourself that in your imprisonment. Maybe it'll sound less hollow there."

A horrific howl finally went up as the energies wracked the dark form. The Diestro slumped over, was still. The form faded into a mass of darkness, then was gone. All that remained was a blackened dagger, and the echo of his howl.

Or was that the sound of a train....?

**********************

Diego woke up, drenched in sweat, pulse hammering. He looked around his quiet dorm room, sighing in relief that both his roommates were both still asleep. "Diestros?"

Without a Seer to guide or Magician to defend, you must beware magics. The dangers are too great, the price too high....

[El Nuevo Diestro]

Sol de España reached his hand down and pulled Alaluzca up on his horse in front of him. The plot against the Archbishop and would soon go into effect, and he had to move fast to intercept it. However, he knew Alaluzca's gift of Sight would vastly increase his chances of success....

************

Pain raked across his body as the wizard drove his staff into the ground. Cazador dropped to one knee. The spellcaster drew a golden sickle and slit it across the throat of the goat in front of him.
"Too late now, Spaniard. Too late, and now my power can only grow. All of Christendom shall fall!"
"Never," replied Cazador, pushing through the pain and standing.....

************

The Frenchman feinted left and cut back across his thigh, scoring a long cut. The Thirty-sixth didn't flinch, and twitched his sword at his opponent's face. The Frenchman brought his own up in defense, and the Diestro drew his dagger across his forearm, opening a wide gash. The French duelist backed up two steps, and the Diestro used the opening to cut across a diagonal arc and thrust at his side. Used to the forward-and-back focus of french-style fencing, the circular move caught him by surprise. The Diestro's sword slid home, the French duelist dropped, and he finished him off.

The Thirty-sixth turned toward The Most Honorable Vizier, Court Astrologer and High Magician to His Majesty, By the Grace of God King of Spain, and said "The insult to your honor is avenged, sir. Your champion has won. If you would be so kind?"

The Vizier nodded, and moved his hands in intricate movements as the eyes rolled back in his head. The Diestro could feel the strength creep back into his body, the sore muscles loosening, the wounds knitting themselves back. Before long, he was fully healed....

************

As the enchantress finished the indecipherable phrase she pointed, and the crown princess fell. The Twenty-Eighth howled in frustration; he'd arrived too late. He leaped at the evil caster, his determination and the protection of the souls fending off the dolorous effects of the Enchantress's bewitching aura. Even still, he hesitated the tiniest of moments at her flawless features (doubtless the work of illusion) before slamming the hilt of his rapier across the side of her head. He would have to take her alive; the Inquisition would question her, attempt to rip the counterspell from her. In the meantime, he would need to quest to attempt to discover a counter on his own. Time was short before the coronation...

************

Diego's eyes snapped open, and he groaned and turned over. Again. Another night, woken feeling exhausted, as if the adventures the night bombarded him with were his. He had been avoiding it, but he knew he couldn't anymore. It was happening too often. Not every night, but with the schedule they'd been driving him at even the several nights in the last two weeks was too much. He would have to address the Diestros about it, today. He knew he'd have to wait until his official class and audience with them later, they would never accept blatant questioning now. Until then, he would just have to bear the apparent lack of sleep. He looked over at the clock; forty-five minutes until it was time to wake up. Oh well, that was something at least.

He closed his eyes and sought what sleep he could get until then.

[El Nuevo Diestro]

Diego performed the motions, ever more intricate; a circular step, then swipe, parry-stab-swipe, extending his sword with a brief hop and rotation, spinning several times before lightly touching down, stab with sword and dagger, leap across major circle with a flip to reoorient, feint left....

Now recite.

Diego continued his movements, but let them come from his subconscious, letting a passage come into his mind to recite "...I stopped the motion of Giralda, I weighed the bulls of Guisanda, I plunged headlong into the cavern of Cabra, and brought to light its hidden secrets; yet my hopes are dead--O how dead! And her commands and disdains alive--O how alive! In short, she has now commanded me to travel over all the provinces of Spain, and compel every knight whom I meet to confess that, in beauty, she excells all others now in existence; and that I am the most valiant and enamoured knight in the universe..."

Mathematics.

The movements continued, never ending, series after series; no longer flawless, or perhaps less intricate, but steady. "The length of an arc of a circle with radius r and subtending an angle Θ (measured in radians) with the circle center—i.e., the central angle—equals Θr. This is because L over circumference equals Θ over 2 pi. Substituting in the circumference (2 pi r) and solving for arc length, L, in terms of Θ, yields L equals Θr..."

Earth science.

There was a slight hesitation as he completed another leap with 180° rotation, but as he reset he complied "A whirlwind is a revolving mass of air resulting from local atmospheric instability, such as that caused by intense heating of the ground or powerful storms. Examples of whirlwinds include the major whirlwinds, tornadoes, waterspouts, and landspouts, and the minor whirlwinds, including dust devils, as well as steam devils, snow devils, debris devils and shear eddies such as the mountainado. Intermediaries include the gustnado and the fire whirl..."

English.

Diego considered it a triumph he didn't so much as wince; the exercises continued and he launched into a series of combinations. "A split infinitive is an English-language grammatical construction in which a word or phrase, usually an adverb or other adverbial, comes between the marker to and the bare infinitive (uninflected) form of a verb. As the split infinitive became more popular, some grammatical authorities sought to introduce a prescriptive rule against it. The construction is still the subject of disagreement among native English speakers as to whether it is grammatically correct or good style..."


And halt. You progress, and your focus is much improved. This is well; hours now draw nigh wherein further training will be put to the test. We will now begin soul-strengthening exercises...

[El Nuevo Diestro]

Recuerdas.

He remembered. He doubted the sharp, crisp memory of that day would ever fade. The executer of the will had delivered the trunk in person; it was a specific stipulation, and he was nothing if not fastidious. Another was that he leave the young master alone with it after it was delivered. He did so, but went to sit in a parlor to wait and make sure things were in proper order before he left. If he had just done his job and gone home, he would have lived to go home.

Left alone, the recipient looked into the large trunk. It was all there, all the things he'd heard about. More. The whole legacy. The Grand Vizier's Staff; even cut in half, it was supposed to be powerful. The Mercurial Boots, taken from a pagan seeking to return Italy to the ancient Roman Gods by destroying the Vatican. Several journals, manuals, and assorted other books. All manner of blades of various makes, styles, and origins. His eyes, though, were soon drawn to a smaller box within the trunk. He let his fingers brush across it, and he felt a tug unlike any he had ever felt....

That was when he heard the crash, the commotion. He stood up, trying to hear what was going on. Crashes, things breaking, yelling. Furrowing his brow, he moved to go to the door, but it crashed in, broken into pieces. His eyes went wide; three figures in dark robes came through the door, wielding large daggers, looking around the large room. He couldn't see their faces. But they almost faded when another, bald headed with strange glowing eyes, entered the room. He looked straight at the young master, then the trunk. "Take him, he has a bloodline. The trunk's contents are what brought us though; I will make sure that gets back personally."

Despite the stranger's words, he knew he was going to die, that they would kill him, that this was the last day and it would all be over. The fear shook him, washed over him in waves. As the robed men approached, he could feel his heart race, his breath coming almost in gasps. Then an odd tug caused his head to jerk, and his eyes rested again on the box in the trunk. And something, some spark inside him, was suddenly not afraid, and determined that this would not be the last day.

He grabbed the box, and at that motion the robed men moved to quickly grab him. Blindly, he reached and grabbed the closest weapon in the trunk, while clutching the box in his other hand. Then he stumbled backwards, almost tripping over an end table, then falling back on his rear before he could catch his balance. As he landed, the top flew off the box, and a mask fell out. He reached out to it as the robed men knocked furniture out of their way, and as his fingers touched it he heard them.

You can fight. You must fight! We can help you!

Why he was not startled, he will never know, but he looked at the weapon in his other hand, a long parrying dagger, and back at the men approaching with their own long daggers. He didn't want to be afraid. He didn't want to be helpless. And, deep down inside, a part of him knew what this was; what this meant. He wanted to fight the fight that had been fought in a line unbroken for generations, centuries. He wanted it, deep down in his soul.

Unfortunately, he didn't know what he was doing; what everything meant, what everything did. So he did what came natural; he gripped the dagger, and swept up the mask, moving it to his face. Too late, over the rush of his decision made, he heard their warning.

NO! Don't put it on! Too late. The mask instantly settled on his face, held there immovably, thought it itself moved a remarkable amount, allowing decent expressiveness. He wouldn't realize that till much later however. At this particular moment, he was fighting to keep himself from breaking apart. Smothering. Or, perhaps, floating away.

Voices crashed in on his psyche, his soul, many and varied. Each individual, then speaking in groups as one, then all together in horrendously glorious cacophony. He felt suspended, bodiless, floating away from life and sanity. But he'd just decided he wanted to live, to fight; this fight was as vital as the one he had expected. So he turned in on himself, desperate to find himself, his core, what mattered most about him while the thoughts and voices and sheer presences around him crashed in. It was impossible to gauge time, to know how long he would have to endure. But he endured. He couldn't manage to do any more; he did no less.

Finally, the thundering of the voices became slightly manageable, enough that he could make out pieces of what they said. As best he could, he fought to do as they said. His hold on his psyche, on his sense of self, was tenous, but he felt himself drift towards something. Or, possibly, towards something-ness itself. There was light; then lights and shadows. Color. Eventually, he realized his eyes were open. Then, he realized what his eyes were, what that meant. With great effort, he made himself blink. For the briefest moment, he was looking at himself blink, like watching an automaton perform an ordered action, and then he again was looking out from inside himself.

More words came from the voices; they hurt less now, that he seemed to again be within himself, a part of his body. He caught more of them, understood more. He blindly did as they said, performing this small action, that small movement. Enough sense of self finally returned that he realized he was sitting on the trunk, the parrying dagger still clutched in his fist. He was sore, bore several sharp pains. He focused on that pain, that proof of life, as much as the sense of "I" that seemed so hard, so slippery.

After a time, he saw that the room was a wreck; the bodies of the robed men, including the one with the strange eyes, lay defeated. He had no idea how it had happened. If he had even done it; at least, not "he" in a way that he could really quantify. Sirens began to approach; someone must have hid, or got away, and called the police. The voices were still speaking, still loud. Too loud to ignore; as he tried to listen, he felt again as if he was floating outside, or maybe around, himself. He could make them out, and heard what they said; they started to explain, to reassure him, to describe what to do and say. A stranger inside himself, lost in a crowd, one thought and feeling gave him warmth and fought the panic: family.

He had family again. All of his family that existed in this world anymore was now with him. And if he lived up to the duty now on his shoulders, they would continue to be with him, in this world and the next. The shattered psyche that was Diego sighed, and it almost trailed off into a sob. Family. Duty. He was still alive. A glint of light caught the (his?) eye. A shard of mirror. He watched the masked face in it as tears gathered in the eyes and began to fall.

[El Nuevo Diestro]

It would end where it had begun. The featureless grey plain stretched off to the horizon; possibly infinity. Both sides readied themselves as best they could for the inevitable.

The Adventurers were there in full force, each making his own preperations. The Monks, finally deciding to act, knelt in prayer nearby. Some Traditionalists, freed from Blackshirt domination, were also present. A few Polititians, breaking on this issue with their own still-neutral faction, rounded out the group.

The Blackshirts, for their part, were in synched conclave, jointly gathering their energies and establishing chains-of-command and hierarchies. Traditionalists, both subjugated and not, hovered on the outskirts, along with members of several other factions whose souls were now thrall.

Neither side was what it was when open conflict began. For one, Mata-piratas had not been the only true casualty. Secondly, several had spent all their energies and merely clung to existence, and were no longer fit for direct interaction. The many attempted influences, ambushes, skirmishes, and final grasping for effect that was beginning to be called their "Dream War" had slowly but surely strained the resources of the combatants. It was now time to settle things, or watch themselves slowly dissipate.

Soon the end would begin.

Finally, both sides were prepared and arrayed for what was soon to come. The two sides looked across the field at each other; sizing each other up? Regretting it had come to this? Looking forward to glory? Each was as likely as the other, or possibly all of them to some degree.

Eventually, though, Sol de España came to the front of his line, and called out "There is no negotiation that can end this?"

"None," came the reply.

Sol nodded. "Well then." And that was all.

The two sides charged at each other simultaneously, as if some unheard signal had been given. Most ran, but some floated, or leaped; a select few were more comfortable on manifested horse-back. Rather than crash into each other, the two lines flowed together, swaying with the circular movements of La Verdadera Destreza. Everyone knew the name of everyone else. Everyone knew their opponent by reputation if nothing else. They were all the more vicious for that knowledge.

Having trained in the same style, their differences were accentuated; they were their strengths and weaknesses. A Diestro who fought in the Phillipines while they were part of the Spanish Empire lashed out with a vicious kick. Another momentarily manifested the obsidian-studded war-club of the Aztecs for a backhand blow. A third swirled his cape around his opponent's off-hand, an obscure though long-acknowledged technique. And so on. One against another skills measured up or were found lacking; swordsmen measured up or were found lacking, defeated or subverted.

Sol de España sought El Puño; the two had never met and compared skills, and he was eager to test the other's mettle. To defeat him would go a long way towards bringing this conflict towards a conclusion. He quickly scythed through a coterie of Traditionalists, before going the paces with a determined Blackshirt. Just then, though, he spotted El Puño through the crush of combat. He feinted then withdrew, a move which caught his opponent by sufficient surprise that another Adventurer moved into the opening and dispatched him.

Puño caught the movement, and deduced Sol's intentions. He grinned; it was fine with him. He held off his own opponent long enough to order two Traditionalists in to support him, and as their Monk foe fell before the sudden onslaught, he removed himself slightly from the whirl of the general melee, using the moments to focus and direct some of his comrades.

Finally Sol breaks away, and approaches combat range. Neither waits for the other, and their swords quickly cross. Sol beats the blade and comes aggressively with a flurry using intense strength and control to come from multiple directions. Puño, however, responds with textbook perfect defense, calm, cool, collected. As Sol moves in along an oblique arc, Puño waits for Sol to begin a second series before responding with a riposte and almost striking home as Sol is forced to desperately side-step. Sol resets himself, but now is forced to mount his own determined defense as Puño thrusts again and again in an effort to end the duel quickly. Sol proves up to the challenge, a slight grin breaking on his face. Both resetting, swords extended, they each give the other the slightest movement of the head; the preliminaries over, the true test of skill could begin.


((To Be Continued....))

[El Nuevo Diestro]

Their matching of skills never occurred.

A cry of "EN FERRO VERITAS!" rang out; even the most deperate of combats paused. Unbeknownst to the combatants, the Duelists had taken the field. Moments after their cry rang out, they slashed into the flank of the battle lines and plunged deeply through both their ranks. Adventurers and Blackshirts both called a fall-back, neither willing to face Duelists with surprised and confusion working against them. The quick spree of casualties in their wake proved the validity of their reputation; the Duelists were considered on a plateau of their very own in swordsmanship, and in their unexpected arrival dealt vastly more defeats than their much smaller numbers would credit. Sol shook his head in dismay, and Puño twisted his mouth in frustration. They broke off, to rejoin their lines as the Duelists backed away from the combatants themselves. It was then the second surprise of the day struck.

The 26th, finest combat strategist of the Adventurers, cried out as he was struck down; his counterpart in the Blackshirts was simularly struck. Several other key combatants suddenly found themselves with manifested blades sliding home into them. The Spies had finally come out of hiding, and had also taken the field. Though two of the Spies were caught, in the wake
of the Duelist assault the havok increased ten-fold as the factions turned in on themselves in fear of sudden strikes. None had known even the Spies capable of such total stealth and swift manifestation.

Seeing this, El Liberador and Colibrí nodded to each other; they once again charged, bringing up the Duelists behind them in formation as they closed with their targets. Once again, Duelist assault hit hard into confused and unready foes who quickly fell. They pierce deep into the formation, soon their vanguard reaching the core of those they considered the only possible rivals to their personal skill: The leadership of the Adventurers. Each Adventurer was as unpredictable as he was individualistic; each was a breed unto himself, and the Duelists hated wild cards. El Liberador quickly grabbed the attention of a small group, deftly deflecting their attacks both massed and individual and somehow finding the openings for his own strikes, keeping them occupied. Meanwhile, Colibrí slipped past, and as he launched his own attacks Adventurers were found lacking. Not one movement, not the smallest shift, was wasted; each brought another opponent just where he wanted them, onto the end of his blades. More than living up to his name, his rapier darted impossibly quick, impossibly precise. As Adventurers who had never met their equal were struck, the old addage was proven true again and again: no matter how good you are, there is always someone better. Colibrí was that someone.

Watching the bloody swath this man who seemed the manifestation of swordsmanship itself was carving, Sol knew he could not stay back, even as his comrades moved to block Colibrí from him. So he pushed his comrades aside and moved forward, closing to combat range and extending his sword. Colibrí responded in kind, and faster than Sol could have believed he was forced into full defensive against Colibrí's unrelenting assault. He held the Duelist off, performing better than he had even given himself credit for against the seemingly omni-present blade. The rest of the Duelists in their vanguard meanwhile managed to form a small shell about the two combatants.

Meanwhile, the Blackshirts had been attempting to somehow deduce what the Duelists were after, how this could be yet turned into victory, and unwilling to risk any more of their own till a plan to do so could be brought forth. At seeing the deep strike on the Adventurers, however, they were decided, and launched themselves to smother the Duelists between their own numbers and the Adventurers. The Duelists had expected this, and were not caught completely unaware; in addition, the Spies once again began to appear, using their unconventional tactics to best effect. Still, the Blackshirts retained numerical superiority, and as they joined the crush of combat the field degenerated into a melange of enemies. Traditionalist fought Monk, Adventurer fought against enthralled independent in the hopes of freeing them, Blackshirt fought off Spy as he moved in for a quick kill. Only DUelists managed to remain coherent, though how long they could maitain was in serious doubt as their numbers were quickly dwarfed.

Watching, but not participating, the Duelist known as the 36th saw that the signs he had been told to watch for had occurred; he vanished, setting out to accomplish his task and begin the last gambit of this end-game. Not long after, just as Sol was certain defeat was at hand despite an effort that would have become the stuff of living legend had the participants still been alive, the Duelists' final surprise brought the chaotic combat to a screeching halt. Whereas the entrance of the Duelists had created a pause, this brought things to a total stop on a dime.

"Younglings!" the call went out. The call itself would normally have had little such effect. The Younglings had been divided since dissention had begun, and had been virtually shattered at the opening of hostilities. A few Younglings, here and there, were even already on the field, entrhalled or allies with this other faction or that.

And again "Younglings!" rang out. It was not the call, or even surprise that a notable grouping of Younglings had brought themselves together; nor even that they had come into such a conflict when their numbers did not even quite match that of the Duelists. The shocked ceasing of hostilities came instead due to the figure at the Youngling's lead, standing ramrod straight, rapier raised high. Diego, ever-present mask seeming to shine with its own inner light, jaw set with determination, regarded the field of battling Diestros. Then he swung his sword down quickly, and he and the Younglings
leapt forward.

Whether through subsconscious expectation or intentional use, it was a leap only possible by him, in the land of the living, with the use of the Mercurial Boots which had long been in possession of the family. Because of this, he and the Younglings landed deep in the midst of the Blackshirts, and promptly set to work using the shock and confusion of Diego's presence to wreck havok. Soon, however, several Blackshirts decided this was an exceptional opportunity, or that the reward outweighed the risk of assaulting the living heir.

Most expected fairly easy victory, even with Youngling interference. He was, after all, still a relative novice, and as far as they were concerned they already knew everything he did. They were, fortunately, mistaken; Diego knew they would assume this. The Duelists, his personal instructors in the lead in to this final conflict, did as well, and did their best to prepare him. So Diego used what he had learned seperate from the Diestros; he was, after all living in Paragon City itself. As a group of them approached, he quickly backed in tighter with the Younglings, then lashed out with strikes designed to leave openings in his opponents' defenses rather than strike home, leaving them vulnerable to his allies. It was a tactic that had served him well when joined with his schoolmates, either against swarms of gang-members or alien invaders, and was just as effective here. One opponent came at him along a circular arc at optimal sword range; Diego quickly rushed in unexpectedly, batting aside his sword arm and body-blocking him, causing the opponent to loose balance. Watching American footballers? Stasis? Sam? But no, as another opponent sought to get in close himself and bring his off-hand dagger to bear before Diego could bring his rapier back in to play, Diego reared back and lashed out wildly with his fist. The wind-up lent speed and additional unexpectedness to a blow which landed surprisingly solid despite lack of technique, leaving the Diestro momentarily stunned; that was definately Sam. Another opponent dealt with an unconventional slash; Ves? Artie? Or even (Heaven forbid!) Diyar? It mattered little in the end. A swipe threatening to land, and Diego swayed back and away; the Diestro found himself overextended, having expected Diego to counter with his sword. Diego, however, had assumed such and instead responded with the same dodging sway many fellow students with long-range powers relied on when opponents closed into melee range.

And so forth. Calling on all his skills, he managed to hold off the Blackshirts willing to engage him; however, he and the Younglings were slowly being overwhelmed. They lasted, however, long enough. While Diego did surprisingly well, the Duelist leadership took the opportunity, and pause, to engage in heated discussion. As a result, Duelists, Adventurers, and Monks pressed in, crashing through the Blackshirts engaging the smaller group and joining up with them. The Blackshirts, now torn with indecision, were split between those engaging and those noticing the tide had turned. Finally, though, even the most battle-driven Blackshirt still in the fight noticed the odds vastly changing, his opponents were now from a variety of groups. The combat ground to a halt.

"I assume you are now ready to settle this with negotiation," stated Colibrí.

"Perhaps that would be best," replied El Puño. With a glance at Diego, he added, "Circumstances appear to have shifted in unexpected ways."

"Indeed. Glad to hear it. But first...maybe there is something else we should take care of first?"

El Puño raised an eyebrow, glancing again at Diego as he stood nearly at attention, still at the head of the Younglings. "Maybe. After today, I must say all things seem possible...."

*****************

Diego's eyes snapped open, and he looked around. He noticed he was covered in sweat. Slowly, he stood up from his knees, noticing the stiffness from staying there so long in the pew. He looked up at the altar, emotion welling up in his racing heart.

So long, so much. Sacrifice, pain, and work. All towards one goal, one desire: to become a full Knight of the Red Lion. To find freedom in service. To be worthy.

Diego reached up to his face, and took off his mask. He smiled.

END.