Chapter Five
A soft clatter of hooves outside the shop attracted their attention. Victor turned toward the door for a moment, but that moment was all that Diego needed. His efforts were finally paid off – his hands (though for the price of having bleeding wrists) were free at last. He jumped forward, knocking Victor off his feet. All he needed was to get to his sword that lay on the table next to his cape just a few feet away.
Manuel stood in his way with a knife in his hand. Diego swung around him, trying to stay clear of the blade. A shot rang out behind the young don, and the latter froze unsure if he was dead or alive.
"Diablo!" Victor threw the still smoking pistol aside in exasperation, as Manuel’s body thumped to the ground.
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"It seems the odds are on his side now," the first phantom remarked, observing the scene.
"Perhaps," the second one answered calmly, "but not for long."
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Alejandro de la Vega heard the shot and ran toward the house, paying no attention to the threatening cries of his guard – the blacksmith. He flung the door open, fearing the worst, but, to his greatest relief, he saw his son standing visibly unharmed in the middle of the room.
But to Diego seeing his father storm into the shop followed by Luis was far from a comforting sight.
"Father, what are you doing here?" he asked, growing very pale.
"Yes," Victor, who was only a step away from the door, approached the older de la Vega, pressing the edge of his sword against the don’s chest, "that is what I would also like to know. Why did you bring him here, Luis?"
"What happened to my cousin?" the blacksmith inquired angrily, ignoring the question.
"Why do you not ask that of your patron?" Diego said evenly, searching in his mind for a safe way out for him and his father.
Luis turned his attention to the Spaniard. "You killed Manuel?" he reached for his knife.
"I meant to shoot de la Vega," Victor tried to explain, watching the movements of the blacksmith with strained attention. "Your cousin got in the way."
Luis did what was expected of a Spanish blood relative – he lunged forward, reaching with his knife for the heart of his opponent.
But, whatever else could have been said about Victor Fuentes, he was truly an excellent swordsman. Those years he spent in training have greatly improved his already good skills. He moved against his attacker with a speed of lightning, not letting the knife reach its deadly mark.
Diego had no doubts about the outcome of that swift duel, so he did not lose anytime paying close attention to it. He backed away slowly, while his two kidnappers were busy fighting each other, until he pressed against the edge of the table. His hand found the hilt of the sword, and his fingers wrapped around its handle. He smiled slightly, feeling a familiar comfortable heaviness of the weapon in his hand.
The duel was over. The blacksmith Romero had lost his final battle.
"You should not have come here, Don Alejandro." Victor calmly removed his blade from the still convulsing body of the blacksmith and pressed its bloody tip against the perfectly white shirt of the elder de la Vega. "Now your son will have to watch you die." Victor paused, musing, and added, "Come to think of it, it might not be such a bad idea after all."
Alejandro, whom the late blacksmith naturally did not allow to take any weapon with him, could do nothing but stand face to face with his would-be killer, staring at him full of defiance and hatred.
"Fuentes!" came a desperate cry from the depths of the room.
"What is it you wish, de la Vega?" Victor asked without taking his eyes off the elder don.
"I think you and I have something to settle." Diego walked slowly toward them, clutching the sword in his hand. "You have lost miserably when we first fought each other. You said that from that moment all you dreamed about was beating me." He pushed aside a chair, clearing the area for the duel. "Let us find out whether you can do what you have been training for all three years." The young caballero bent his sword slightly, testing its flexibility, and added evenly, "Let us see if you can ever be the best."
Victor turned, narrowing his eyes evaluatively on the tall black-clad figure of his challenger. "Very well," he said finally. "That should prove exciting." The Spaniard bent over Luis Romero’s body, removed the blacksmith’s knife and gun, and stuck both weapons behind his belt in the back. "You will understand me, señor de la Vega," he explained mockingly to the old don, "if I do not trust you with these." He nodded at an overturned chair by the wall. "Why do you not take a seat over there, Don Alejandro, and enjoy the spectacle."
Alejandro made a move toward his son, ignoring the Spaniard. His heart was heavy with an unrelenting fear, a strange foreboding. "Diego, I do not—"
"It is all right, father," Diego said with a smile that was too tense to be reassuring. "Just do as he says."
The old man lingered for a brief moment, as if her were about to say something and then stepped aside to the wall.
Victor’s attack came without warning. He bent his knees slightly leaning forward, gathering tension in his legs, much like a spring that is being squeezed to collect enough energy to recoil with explosive force. And so Victor, too released his built-up energy into an explosive running attack almost falling forward with his blade – an attack so fast and so precise that it was almost a deadly one for his opponent. Diego, whose attention at that moment was directed at his father, barely had time to sidestep, avoiding the blade that would have certainly run him through had he lingered a second longer. Fortunately, he reacted on time, and the blade and the attacker ran past him. However, such a move done in haste without proper preparation caused Diego to lose his balance, and Victor, who was mentally cursing his unsuccessful attack, saw his opponent falter and lunged again, hoping to finish the deed this time. Diego fell on his back, putting his sword up as a shield. The blades met with a loud clang – the Spaniard’s sword pressing down on the Californiano’s. The latter raised his foot and pushed Victor away with all his strength.
Alejandro de la Vega, who sat all tense on the edge of the chair, almost inaudibly took in a breath of air.
His son rose to his feet and began advancing at Victor, making circular movements with his blade. An unkind predatory smile crossed his lips; his eyes were flashing with anger. The Spaniard was getting on his nerves with that foul play of his. It was time to end it.
Victor retreated, taken aback somewhat by that frightening grin. Diego’s eyes narrowed, hiding a spark of triumph – he had Fuentes right where he wanted him – confused and uncertain. Now it was his turn to cheat. Diego made a half-step back, just enough for Fuentes to think that he was retreating. The Spaniard followed blindly into his trap, advancing at whom he thought to be a frightened opponent. Diego waited calmly for him to get close enough, and then suddenly sprang forward, hitting Victor’s sword with the bell guard of his – putting all his strength in that hit. Fuentes’ sword broke in half, and he retreated in fear as the point of Diego’s blade pressed threateningly against his chest.
"Diego, please," Victor begged, feeling the rough surface of the wall against his back and the cold steel of the sword on his chest. He looked with horror into the implacable hazel eyes and found there nothing but poorly hidden fury – his death sentence. Victor closed his eyes in desperation, waiting for the end.
Diego stood in front of his beaten enemy, breathing heavily. His fingers squeezed the handle of the sword so tightly that his knuckles became white. The edge of his sword, shaking from the pressure applied to it, was almost ready to enter its victim’s body.
"Diego, let him go, my son. He is not worth it."
Young caballero started at the sound of his father’s voice, as if awakened from some kind of a trance. He looked down at his sword like it was some object completely alien to him, and unclasped his fist, letting the sword drop to the ground.
"My father is right," he said evenly to the bewildered Spaniard, "you are not worth it. One should not waste effort on a scum like you."
Diego turned and walked slowly toward his father who stood waiting for him by the door, smiling with a mixed air of approval and relief.
Victor, who flattened himself against the wall, shaking from his near-death experience, watched his mortal enemy walk away. And, as he watched, he felt his fear turn into pure rage. "You should have finished what you started, de la Vega," he squeezed through clenched teeth, reaching for the gun behind his back. "You will be sorry you have not." And he pulled the trigger.
Diego heard the shot and felt something push him hard in the back, sending a sharp wave of pain that tore his chest to pieces. And then the pain ceased as abruptly. Everything around him suddenly split into millions of little bits and pieces like broken china set. Diego tottered and fell down on his face; his father’s desperate scream drowned in the dead silence that consumed him.
Chapter Six
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