THE DEATH OF KNIGHTMASK

Like a thing alive, the blade danced in the Asian’s hand, hungrily seeking out the black flesh of his masked opponent, as if spurred on by some unholy, merciless appetite. In the murderous grace of his onslaught of singing steel, his great mass of greying hair took on the aspect of a lion’s mane as it trailed behind his charging body. He towered a full foot above his nemesis, and though his lean frame lacked the bulging muscles that stretched the masked man’s black skin taut, his precise cuts and thrusts were woven together in an unceasing, balletic flow. Lacking the older man’s art, the masked man, for all his vast strength and quickness of hand, should have long ago fallen to the other’s blade. Only an instinctual prowess with the sword and the praeternatural agility to somersault over strokes that had otherwise penetrated his defense had saved him thus far.

The desert sun had burned a hole through the blue curtain of sky, bearing down oppressive, sweltering rays upon the desert below. Though they’d fought with no quarter for the better part of the day and at headlong pace, the dueling swordsmen seemed unmoved by the heat or by any any fatigue at all. If the temperature or the length of their battle told on either, they gave no sign. The grey maned Asian’s face was stoic and impassive, while whatever emotions played on the face of the other were hid behind the cover of his black mask and golden encrusted ruby quartz visor.

Sand and desolation stretched on in every direction. The fighters only company was the clangor of steel on steel and a single woman, who stood off from the contest, watching in silence. Her silken, coal black hair fell about supple shoulders and crowned a visage so chiseled and sharp of feature it could have passed for the marble bust of an ancient queen crafted by a master sculptor’s hand…but for the tears that ran down her cheeks.

Alone and uncomforted she watched the finely-tuned swordcraft of the greyhair oppose the tigrish prowess of the masked one. It was the vigor and athleticism of youth against artful mastery and the cunning of age.

Iron thews and steel-trap speed versus calculated efficiency.

The man she loved against her very grandfather.

The older man's blade sliced out at the masked man's torso. The masked one leaped high, so that the deadly arch of steel passed over him. The greyhair charged again, his blade singing down towards his enemy's head, to cleft his skull. Again, the blade cut through empty air, owing to a sideways leap by his dusky adversary.

Twisting through the air, the younger man landed on his feet and charged headlong towards his rival. Though his assault lacked refinement, it had the elemental force of a raging hurricane. Calmly, the greyhaired man rode out the storm of steel with one shrewd parry after another, navigating through the wild fury until finally the storm let.

Then the older man's blade cut forward, swift and precise, sheathing itself hilt deep in the chest of his rival. Yanking the sword free in a single, fluid motion, he stepped back as the masked man's powerful muscles sagged and went limp as the life fled from them and he collapsed onto the sand.

"Come, granddaughter. KnightMask has been a worthy foe...and if he shall not embrace our ways...then there is no greater honor for such a one than death in single combat."

"A...moment...grandfather. Indulge me one final kiss...a memorial to what might have been..."

Kneeling over him so that her hair fell down onto his chest in a black pool, she held up his head and administered a gentle kiss. Softer than a whisper, she spoke to him. Then she stood and walked off toward the fading desert sun.


THE OLD ONES

Natalia's grandfather, Koga, had led she and KnightMask through an idyllic maze of gleam spires and mansions, of rolling hills, pools that sparkled underneath the sun...all of it part of the life they were to enjoy together should KnightMask join with the Rodrigo clan.

And then of course, the old question came up. The feud between catch-wrestling--KnightMask's art--and Brazilian jiu jitsu. The old schism that had lay between Natalia and KnightMask and caused so much turmoil for so long.

"The so-called rivalry between jiu jitsu and catch-wrestling...?" the grey-haired man scoffed contemptuously. "Come, follow me."

He beckoned after KnightMask, who was dressed in the civilian garb of an Iron Maiden t-shirt and sweatpants. A cross hung from his neck, while the supple, dark form of Natalia Rodrigo hung to his arm. They walked to a room adorned with books, posters, computers and several shelves. It seemed to be an archive of sorts. What struck KnightMask immediately, however, was the poster directly across from him on the wall. His eyes widened as he looked at Mitsuyo Maeda, the famed master who taught jiu jitsu to the Gracie family, engaging in what appeared to be a catch-wrestling bout....



In the world of submission grappling, the notion that the founder of Brazilian jiu jitsu might have had any connection to catch-wrestling was a Watergate-class scandal. Beneath the poster was a tournament bracket for the catch-as-catch-can world championships. In second place, at heavyweight, was Mitsuyo Maeda.

KnightMask's head spun. The founder of jiu jitsu...was a catch-wrestler...?

"Brazilian jiu jitsu has ever been infused with catch-wrestling," the grey haired Koga sneered, "Since its very inception. The truth is that each particular martial artist gives birth to his own unique style in the manner by which he expresses the techniques taught to him. And regardless of the name of his style, he will gravitate--if he has any wisdom--towards the techniques that best suit him. Jiu jitsu's approach is general methodical and position oriented. Catch-wrestling, faster and more dynamic, aimed at being able to secure submissions from all angles.Together, they make for a complete style. To divorce them from one another is to leave oneself incomplete as a grappler."

Beneath the shade of her long dark lashes, Natalia's eyes widened in shock.

"But grandfather...how can you say this...? What about the supposed stain on the clan's honor left by Tyrone defeating my father...?"

Koga smiled.

" At the upper levels of the clan, we deliberately suppressed the information of catch-wrestling and jiu jitsu's common origins and stoked opposition between the two camps. Perpetual conflict is the greatest way to maintain control. Caught up in the manufactured rivalry, many do not even realize they are being manipulated. Besides that, divorcing the yin and yang of grappling as much as possible, save for those loyal to the clan, is just what my masters wish for. Knowledge of grappling most remain as parsed and incomplete as possible. It is their will."

"Your masters...?" Natalia asked, confused. "What do you mean, grandfather...?"

"You will see, little one. You will see."

Koga pressed a panel in the archive room, leading to a hidden staircase. Tentatively, KnightMask and Natalia followed after him, until they finally came to the foot of the stairs and found themselves looking into a great underground cavern.

A procession of men in black hoods surrounded a strange altar, on which lay a square black stone. KnightMask couldn't make out exactly what sort of material it was cut from. In fact, it looked almost as if it was carved out of pure, incarnate shadow.

"KnightMask...as a man who has attempted to fill his heart with faith, it should give you great relief to know that, indeed, there is a higher power beyond the kin of men."

"Grandfather...what is this place...?" gasped Natalia. Something in the movements of the hooded men unsettled her. There was something inhuman in the way their steps blended together so that they seemed to nearly glide across the ground. Though they spoke in a low, nearly inaudible murmur, she noticed something sibilant and lisped in the words they exchanged. Together, the hooded ones voices made for a sound not unlike the rustling of a river...or the hiss of a serpent.

"Surely, KnightMask...as learned a man as you has heard tales of the Old Ones...and of those made in their image. When the Old Ones left, their followers were driven underground by the savage Picts of old...! They adopted the ways of subterfuge and espionage for their survival..."

KnightMask's head began to spin as he listened. He had indeed heard of the Old Ones...and of their followers as well. It was they, ancient scholars said, that lay at the root of legendary tales of orcs and goblins. A horror crept over him, that he might glimpse what lay beneath the hoods of those that walked the cavern.

"This is the true work of the Rodrigo clan. It is the Old Ones whom we serve. For one day they shall return to the world...in force and fury. They are mighty beyond the reckoning of man...and their triumph is inevitable. But those who clear the way for their return...so as to minimize any inconvenience to them upon the re-establishment of their kingdom...will live in a paradise of peace and plenty. The complete grappler is something that would cause them great inconvenience...given their favor for sacrifice via strangulation....and for other reasons, which perhaps we may discuss at a later time."

Koga's voice trailed off briefly, and it flashed across KnightMask's mind that the infamous cult of Thuggee that one terrorized India were known for strangling their victims as sacrifice to Khali, though Hindu scholars often insisted it was not truly Khali that the Thuggee worshipped.

"KnightMask, you've tried for so long, in such futility, to maintain decency and honor in this crumbling world. Join with me and I promise you a world worthy of a man of your character. A world where you and my granddaughter can raise my heirs with confidence that they shall inherit something more than this world of decadence. The outer world shall die screaming upon the Old Ones return...I would like very much for my granddaughter and the man she loves to abide in the inner sanctuary of peace that shall be granted to us. It will be a world of justice, of honor.

Please, KnightMask.

For Natalia's sake.

Join us."

KnightMask turned to see Natalia's face frozen in a look of abject horror. The look of one who just realized the cause for which her father died, the cause to which she'd devoted her life, was not only a lie...but a lie in the service of perhaps the most unholy cause of all.

And though it was slow and agonizing as he imagined the life he was turning down, he shook his head.

"You...refuse me...? After I offered you the world itself...? Never have I been so insulted...! Then, fool, this shall be settled at last...in combat to the death."


HEAVEN CAN WAIT

Slowly, driven on by a purpose higher than instinct and yet beyond the grasp of reason, KnightMask began to rise from his desert resting place. First it was on legs unsteady and rubbery that he stumbled. And yet, as he pressed on through the night, his gait steadied until finally he was striding across the sand. Directed by some inner compass or perhaps...by a higher one...he went on, making scant use of his eyes, inexorably marching onward and onward...knowing in some immutable way that each step brought him closer to the one he sought...his enemy...until finally...he came upon a lonely tent, lit up by the campfires burning within.

Throwing open the curtains, he came face to face with his enemy. And only then did he realize his name.

KOGA.

The greyhaired warrior gasped.

"By the Old Ones...! I saw you die...!"

KnightMask surged forward with a double-leg and suddenly Koga was borne back, as if on the crest of a mighty wave. Up into the air KnightMask lifted him, before slamming him down to the Earth like a comet from Heaven. Upon the thunderous impact, consciousness fled out from Koga's body. KnightMask stood over him, silent as a grim, black statue. And then, he felt the softness of Natalia's hands wrap about his arm and together they went off into the desert...leaving behind clan and family...dreams of peace...and an enemy that was far deadlier than they had known.