why publish this into a book?( i find it sort of bothersome in reading this from the internet)
it’ll be alot easier to read 
Why not? It’d be illegal, and Squaresoft would be all over me sueing me. Just look at what they did to the absolutely wonderful Chrono Trigger Ressurection project. They had begun a remake that, honestly, would have rivaled a commercial game (their Magus model looked as though it had jumped from the page of the original illustrations); but it scared Square, I suppose, how well they were doing, and they got sent a “cease and desist” order; it had the Chrono community (at least the ones I know) quite aggrivated for a while, and I saw not a few people saying that they were going to boycott Square from now on because of it (though I doubt how adamantly they would hold to it.) Anyway, that’s about the truth of it; the thing belongs to Square, and one cannot just publish it. Technically, even fanfiction is illegal, but the companies don’t really care. Moreover, this story’s not quite good enough to publish; it’s my practice for more professional writing (the language the spells are in is from other things I have written, for example; all those little spells and the like aren’t just a jumble of random words. I’ve given them concrete meaning and grammar rules and the like, or at least attempted to). As for the story, I’m having a single copy that I printed out bound for myself (and its costing me $35Can), but that’s about all I’m doing with this story; it’s done for me now, and I’m moving on to other things.
Anyway, enough egotistical rambling. I’ll post another chapter (wait… is posting it also egotistical and vain? Maybe… oh, well.)
Oh, and ere I post the chapter, my apologies if the plot near the end of it seems amateurish; I wrote the basis for it quite early on in writing it all, and it’s probably not a thing I would have treated so now. Secondly… this one will also have to be in two parts.
CHAPTER X (Part I)
WINDS OF REBELLION
The morning cock crowed as they came again to Truce, while the sun burned red in the Eastern sky. Wearily tramping across the deserted squares and streets they came swiftly to the house. With worry and much caring the peasants took them in again, most especially Marle. For the people of the land had always taken a special liking to their Princess.
“Before the Fall,” Crono explained to Serge as the peasants laid Marle to rest on a bed, “She would always visit in amongst her people. She was as gracious a princess as has ever been, always acting on behalf of them before her father.”
He sat down with a weary sigh on the floor, resting his back to a wall.
“Marle isn’t even her true name, for that matter. Her birth name is Princess Nadia Blancheflor; but she shunned it, casting it aside when amongst her people. She wished for no more than to be as one of them, to be nothing but a common girl with a simple life. What fate has in store for us!”
He laughed, looking over at her.
“Yes, she wished to be a common girl and, in the end, become greater than any princess ever was.”
“Isn’t that what happened to us all?” Serge replied. “To all us that people call heroes?”
“Maybe,” Crono said. “Some days I wonder what other life awaited me had I never set out on my journeys. Would I be happier?”
He shook his head with a thought on his lips.
“No, this is what I was born for and what I have lived for. My heart would not be at rest had I led the life I began.”
“Well, that’s where you and I are different, I guess,” Serge said, dropping to the floor as well. His legs ached fiercely, and he hoped that he would not have to do such a run many more times in the near future.
“I,” he continued, “I still don’t care much for what I was destined to do.”
Crono looked at him with some disbelief.
“You don’t feel pride over what you did? You destroyed the shadow of Lavos! That was a greater thing than near any other has ever done!”
“A little, maybe,” Serge admitted. “But what do I need heroics for? I value peace.”
“Peace? A fair dream, my friend. A naive dream, and nothing but a dream, unless some are willing to fight and sacrifice themselves to attain it for others. This is what we heroes are. The ones who throw ourselves into battle and war, willingly shatter our own lives so that others may rest with unworried hearts.”
“We are the cursed ones, then,” Serge said. “If I had my choice, just give me my village, my fishing boat, and someone to care for forever. Not that I don’t like the thrill of adventure, but I know where my heart really lies. And it’s in peace.”
“Strange,” Crono answered with a smile. “You were offered all of that. Schala, she told you as much that night when we all first met. You were given that very choice, and you chose to follow me instead. You gave up what you wished, and rather aided me. Only now do I see how great a thing that was.”
He paused for a moment, looking to where Marle was resting, safe from harm.
“You have my eternal thanks.”
“Crono?” Marle called weakly. He was at her side quickly, holding her hand tenderly.
She smiled at him.
“As I said, I’ve never doubted what you promised me. But now you have to tell me what is happening, as you said you would.”
“Peace, Marle!” Crono said warmly, kneeling at her side. “There will be time enough for strife and worry in the days ahead. Sleep and take comfort knowing that nothing but death will ever keep us apart.”
She smiled, and closed her eyes.
Serge marvelled at the resilience shown in Marle, knowing now that this woman was a true princess, and not simply a high born lady. A nobility of age was in her, and yet the valour of a warrior maiden seemed to be hers also. Akin almost to Schala, he thought.
No, Schala was more sombre. A sign of her eternal years, perhaps. Marle still kept her youthful spirt, a thing that was rarely shown in Schala, despite her young appearance.
Ah, Schala.
In thinking of her Serge wondered how her own quest was proceeding in the east. He remembered now how Crono had warned her it would be no easy mission. Porre would not take kindly to having an army stirred up against them. And he did not trust Janus either, and neither, it seemed, did Crono. The wizard was a powerful man without question, but was wont to be ill tempered and heedless of any wisdom, either of his own or that of others.
“When should Janus and Schala be back?” he asked of Crono as his friend stood from Marle’s side. The princess was now asleep, a restful peace passing into her face.
“Four, five days, maybe,” Crono answered absently, not withdrawing his gaze from his wife. He had not seen her in two months and was not willing to leave her side after such an absence.
He looked up at Serge, sighing.
“If all goes well, and if they do not meet any resistance. I dare say that Porre will hardly allow them to have their way. But I should think that they will return here before long.”
He raised his brows, understanding the purpose in the question.
“You worry for them? Do not. We will be in far greater danger ourselves in the coming days. And Schala and her brother are stronger than you and I will ever be. It is the gift of the children of Zeal: to be mightier than all others. But there are times when all the might in the world cannot avail one, when other skills but power must rule to guard against ruin. I have been told many times that my greatest gift is neither in my swordcraft nor sorcery, but in my fortune. If I told you but half my stories, you would agree that by reason I should be long dead. Marle and me both. But it seems that fate has some other end in store to us. I wonder...will I know it before it comes upon us?”
Crono shook away the thought with a light laugh.
“Such musings are not for today. War is very near now.”
“What are we going to do, then?” Serge asked, realizing that he had little idea as to what stratagems Crono had thought up. He had known nothing beyond the plan to rescue Marle.
“Janus and Schala are stirring up the people in the east,” he replied. “War will come soon enough. But there are things that we must do, for our part.”
“And what is that?” Serge asked, looking down at the Masamunë which lay on the ground. Dry blood still stained its gleaming edges, a thing which Serge had forgotten in his haste. He found himself hoping now that there would be few more of such deeds in the coming days.
“Our armies will fight evenly matched, I think. Porre has some five thousands here, stationed as a foreign guard. Of them only one thousand are true born people of Porre. The rest are but mercenaries: rogues of Guardia, men with no land, and even Mystics they have taken into their service. But this means that they have some number of powerful magicians in amidst their companies. For our part we have only the same in number, and we will be hungry. But my people know their land well, and will fight with a zeal that no hired soldier could hope to match. And so we will go to war with no surety of victory, only a wavering hope. But there are ways we can better that.”
“We must wait out these few days. I will not make my move until Marle is well enough to accompany us. But when she is, we will strike out again for the castle.”
“Again?” Serge cried, taken by surprise at this. “Don’t you think that we’ve tempted fate there already?”
“Yes, maybe,” Crono replied. “But maybe not. Time will tell, and my fortune has always been good in such things.”
“And you want to do this why?” Serge asked.
“To prepare for this war, their captains will be in counsel there. If we could slay their general, it would be a harsh blow. To have the command of the war fall to another so suddenly would be to our great advantage.”
“You mean you’ll assassinate him,” Serge answered, not caring much for how lightly Crono had suggested this. “I think that would be dishonourable.”
Crono shrugged.
“True enough, it may be. But to do it will fall upon me and Marle, then, and I will suffer whatever judgement fate deals to me. Yet it must be done.”
“Serge, you do not need to wait about here. You are not known to Porre, and I think can go into the town without danger of recognition. Go for a stroll, to the tavern or elsewhere. You have had a hard enough time, I think.”
Serge took Crono’s advice shortly. The day was bright and new, and a gold sun was crowning the eastern clouds as he stepped from the house. A chill morning breeze whispered from the far fields, hinting of a windy day to come. Serge pulled his cloak tightly about him; the climate was far harsher than his own, though it did carry a somewhat bitter beauty of its own.
But putting aside such thoughts, worries and joys both, aside, he quickly found the village tavern. As he entered he found that he was hardly alone in seeking it out, even at such an early hour. Some dozen other people sat about the tables, some alone, some speaking with each other in such noisome tones that it seemed they were uncaring of anything else around them. The tavern itself was dim and old. The wood rafters were stained with countless years of smoke, and the floor adorned with the various shades befitting perhaps centuries of careless visitors.
“Welcome, young one!” the man at the bar called. “Not too often we see new people around here!”
Serge nodded somewhat, but remained quiet as he paced slowly to the bar. This tavern was not the sort that he often went to, and he did not like it much. But it was something, at the least. A place to free his mind of all the things that were pressing upon him now.
“Ah, stranger,” the barkeep said with a great smile. “This is your first visit to our fair land, no doubt?”
Serge nodded sullenly. For all accounts, he realized, he should be elated. He had only just returned from a daring mission without so much as a scratch to show. But something kept the joy from his mind, and turned his mood dark. It was not simply the shaking fear subsiding; that he had felt before and had long ago grown used to. No, it was the manner in which they had succeeded. He had killed men, and he felt sick about it.
“You’re a traveller, then?” the barkeep said, breaking sharply into Serge’s thoughts. “Perhaps there is someone here who you’ll like speak’n to; if nothin’ else he’ll want a word or two with you, I wager. Hey! Toma! This here boy’s a fellow traveller, and seeming somewhat new to Guardia.”
Serge glanced sharply to where the barkeep had called. Alone at a small table sat a grizzled man with sharp eyes. At the call he looked up, shifting his gaze from the man at the bar to Serge.
On seeing Serge he narrowed his eyes and took up a searching look. At last he nodded, placing his tankard heavily to the table.
“Welcome to Guardia, then, you wanderer,” he said, casting his hands out. Though not unfriendly, his voice was harsh, and Serge thought that the welcome had been said with a keenly cynical edge.
“Come, sit. Let us talk of lands and people removed from this one,” he continued, kicking a chair away from the table. Though his manner was rough, Serge could tell that it was not by nature but by choice, and that if this man had been in a royal court he could have been comfortable there even as he was here. A far wandering man who had seen much, and knew the ways of many peoples.
Serge took up the offer and seated himself opposite the man, though he begrudged himself for this as he did it; he found that his sullen mood was not for conversing, and he hoped that this man would not try to keep him long.
“So, you are a wanderer, as I am?” he asked, taking a draught from his tankard, draining it nearly to the dregs.
Serge nodded.
“From El Nido, to the West of here.”
“I know of the region well enough, though I have yet to see it with my own eyes. And I can see that you come from there by your darkish skin. What brings you to this most wretched kingdom, Westman?”
“Nothing I can talk about,” Serge replied shortly. The man saw his ill disposition and rapped his fingers upon the table with a bitter look on his face.
“Very well, then,” he said, sitting back in his chair. “I suppose that leaves the part of speaking to me. My reasons and name are no secret, and I am fairly well known, both in this land and in others.”
He leaned forward on the table again, half bowing his head.
“I am Thomas the Adventurer,” he said, “but am known far and wide as Toma; my family is well known in this line. My father, and his father before him, back twenty generations, have been afflicted with this wanderlust. So I see and hear much of the world: north, south, east, and west. You are from El Nido; as I have said I can see that well enough. And as for your reasons in coming to Guardia, the forsaken kingdom...?”
Serge did not reply, allowing a dark stare to rest on the man. He hoped that the question would end there, and that he would not be compelled to lie. But this man Toma was not daunted as Serge had hoped. Rather he laughed.
“As I said, I hear much, and I am no fool to the changing wind,” he lowered his voice to a near whisper. “It speaks of rebellion. Guardia stirs from its fifteen year slumber, and Porre is uneasy. You would not perchance have any part in these things, would you?”
Again, Serge did not reply. And again, the man Toma laughed.
“I think you do, if by nothing else than your silence. But do not worry, I will not betray you to your enemies. See, I too am of allegiance to this land of Guardia. My eyes and ears are in the service of its exiled king.”
Serge looked at the man with caution. He was somewhat grim, and of like age to Crono. For all Serge could tell he seemed to be very much of Guardia, his skin of a somewhat paler shade like all that northern people, and his stern and truthful tone did not seem to hint at any treachery. Still, Serge was wary.
“Well, I would say that the wind says a lot of things. Be careful that you don’t hear wrong,” he answered, priding himself on the ambiguity he had shown.
Toma smiled, raising his tankard and taking the last draught of ale.
“Well said, well said. You speak so cautiously, I cannot help but think that I strike near with my words. But I merely read the signs, as I have said. The princess is freed this very morning. Porre has threatened to burn the villages. And in the east, two stately strangers journey from town to town, proclaiming that the salvation of Guardia is at hand.”
Serge, against his will, started somewhat. And Toma noticed.
“You know of this, then? Then tell me, is it true what I have heard: that one is none other than the great Sorcerer of old, Magus the Lord of Mystics, the age old enemy of Guardia?”
Serge knew he should not reply, but his eyes betrayed his alarm. He could not know if this man was simply a keen minded traveller or a spy in the service of Porre, for he seemed to know more than any man should about these things. But Toma’s eager words faltered off when he saw that Serge was determined to remain resolutely quiet. He sat backwards in his chair looking, now in his turn now, warily at Serge. Finally he nodded.
“May the star of Guardia shine forever, I say to you. I should hope you know what this means. If not, it will be I that have betrayed my trust.”
Serge felt some relief sweep through him. That, as he remembered from the night before, was the bond-word of the resistance.
“Yes,” he answered. “That’s the secret sign of your resistance. I heard it last night.”
When Toma heard that Serge too knew what it meant, he seemed to be at ease once again.
“As I thought then. Though it is wise not to speak overmuch of these matters in such a place,” he said with a nod at their surroundings. “But I trust we can now at least speak as allies. I must admit I find it a wonder that you, a man of El Nido, would be here in Guardia to fight for its freedom. Lord Crono has many strange friends, or so I have heard, but I did not think he had travelled so far to the west.”
“I’ve only been here for a week or so. I came east with the Crono and two others.”
“Two others?” Toma asked curiously. “Tell me, is it these two in the east?”
Serge nodded.
“Prince Janus and Princess Schala. But I wouldn’t expect you know who they are.”
“Janus?” Toma exclaimed. “That name at least I know. If my memory serves me rightly, and I think it does, that is the birth name of the Sorcerer, is it not?”
“I would guess so. But I’m sure that you know more about Guardia and history than I do.”
“Ah! It is then as I have heard. The great Sorcerer,” Toma said with a shake of his head. “On side with Guardia. I have heard it said that he had long ago fought aside the King to battle an ancient evil, but I had scare believed it as more than legend. And this other you speak of, this Schala. Who might she be? Royalty, no doubt, as you have named her a princess. Some great enchantress, maybe?”
“She’s the last princess of Zeal, and Janus’ sister,” Serge replied shortly, feeling altogether spent and not wishing to spend too long in conversation.
“The princess of Zeal? Wonders abound in these days. We are fortunate to see them come upon us.”
He paused, seeing that with every moment Serge wanted to speak the less of these things.
“But enough of this, then,” he said. “I see you have lately come through great duress. Here, I will tell you of things that I have seen. You know the west well enough, I dare say. And some of Guardia, maybe. But there are countless other lands, and it is my ambition to see every one before I die. So far I have seen but the east, yet even this is a tale that would take a chronicler a decade to tell. Rome is gone for near to a millennia, but others kingdoms have risen in its stead. There there are temples and palaces which tower high into the air and are built of white limestone. There are pillars and monuments, skilfully carved and edged with beaten gold. I have seen tombs of lapis lazuli, halls of marble, and thrones of ivory. It seems that men are ever trying to recall the splendour of ancient Zeal.” He smiled. “Now there is a thing I would be keen to see.”
“You know your king’s story, don’t you?”
“Oh, certainly! I have spent the last twenty years lamenting that I cannot do the same: see the ages of this world unfold in their marvellous majesty. Then, perhaps, I would understand things as they are.”
“But maybe you wouldn’t like what you see. I’ve seen a thing or two also, even though you might not think so, and if I learned one thing it’s not to think that things are as great as they seem. History might seem all wonderful, but there’s a lot of darkness there that not many people ever write about, and would be less than wonderful to live through.”
Toma smiled at this, nodding his head in agreement.
“A grim outlook. Still, wisely said for one so young. You must have seen much in your travels, wherever they were. True enough, my friend; evil oft hides itself behind splendour. And even now, this is often so. In the east there are shadows. There are kings that are nearly as powerful as Porre, and have hearts dark for conquest. I have travelled through these kingdoms myself, have stood in their royal courts, and seen these lords with my own eyes, men eager for power. After witnessing such things, I do not put much faith in any might now. Porre seems strong to those under its heel, but there is much power in the east as well. When there I saw the champion of a great king do remarkable feats. There, now, is a tale worth listening to:
I was in the halls of this certain king, the Lord Ter-Nimureth as he was called, who held sway over a vast empire that stretched from the eastern deserts to the verges of the sea. I, for my part, was there learning the ways of the Eastern people. Then one day a man came into the hall, claiming to be a great sorcerer and warrior. From his side hung a mighty sword, bejewelled and laced with gold thread. He would not name himself, but said that he came from a rival king, and that he sought single combat with the champion of the royal court. Then there was a great hush, for this man seemed very grim and deadly. His robes were unblemished white, and silver lined; his hair shimmered raven black. I never saw his eyes, but I do not think I could have met them. But the king only laughed, and accepted the challenge as if it were but a light matter. Then a ring was made in the hall before the feet of the throne. The strange warrior stepped into it, unafraid. Then the king summoned his own champion.
I must say, if the presence of the white warrior had been one of awe, to stand before the champion was to stand before the face of Terror itself. He was black clad, and with armour as dark and gleaming as jet. He bore a great shield, and an incomparable sword to match. His face was hidden behind the dark visor, and I found myself praying that it would not be displayed, for I did not think that the face could be any but that of a monster.
That battle was short. The white warrior put all his strength forward, but in three strokes his golden sword had shattered to pieces and lay like broken glass of gold on the ground. Without a weapon, he put forth a spell: fire, lightning, and light as bright as the sun. But it was to no avail. The champion laughed at this display, and the sorcery seemed to skip harmlessly past. He strode forward untouched and struck off his opponent’s head with one merciless stroke. In token of his victory he took the hilt of the ruined sword, and left the court without a single word.
I remained in the hall some time after, listening to the talk of the courtiers and, unless my wits failed me, even the king feared this fell warrior of his, a knight seeming more like a demon than a man. It seemed he had come to the court some years before out of the desert, where he had been found poor and sickly by shepherds. The king had sheltered the man, who in turn had shown great skill with a sword become a knight of his court. But soon thereafter it was discovered that he was no mere peasant turned soldier. It was widely rumoured that he was some mighty sorcerer prince, or even king, who had ruled a vast realm, but had been defeated in a great battle long before. Men whispered that had come to this land so that he might rebuild his might, and then return to reclaim his throne. Where it was, I could not learn, for he had never spoken of it to anyone. But I heard him tell the king:
‘Soon I must return to the west, for my business lies there.’
Which is why I think that his throne is in some westward land, though I have not heard of any such dark king in all of history, and I know it from King Gilgamesh of Uruk to the fall of imperial Rome.”
Toma smiled as his last mysterious words trailed off. Despite his disinterest in the man but minutes before, Serge had been listening intently, intrigued with this tale from a distant land. No doubt what Toma had intended when he began it, and he did not seem to be bothered that he was the only one speaking.
“Who this knight was, we may never know. But I see you take interest in my tale, young man. It is true; I swear on my honour as a child of Guardia. And I have many such stories. Some day I will write an account of them, though I fear that most will think them but fantasy. Those travellers who tell tales of dragons and such things are thought to be mad, and for their pains often find prison rather than an eager crowd as a reward. Though I wager even prison would not keep me from speaking of what I know.”
He looked about, glancing out the window.
“It is nearing midday. I must be leaving: a ship awaits me in the Western havens to bear me away to El Nido, and I must board it in three days time.”
Toma stood and nodded at Serge.
“Keep a keen mind, and be ever ready to grasp your sword, my friend. Shadows are everywhere, and those who seek to counter them are few indeed. As for me, I continue now on my wandering. Soon I will set out West to the lands where the sun sets, and will come even to your homeland before long. But that is tomorrow, and this is today. Farewell. Give my Lord Crono my best wishes and fortune, from the adventurer Toma, ever his loyal subject.”
With a slow gait he stepped out the door of the tavern and into the sunlight.
Serge could only wonder to himself after this. Though he felt somewhat pleased to be alone again, his thoughts gave him none of the comfort he had thought they should have. Rather, his many worries and wonderings returned to him the moment he turned his thoughts inward; a thing not unknown to him, and not unlike that which had afflicted him before, while he was bound to the torment of his dreams. Had he merely left one frustration to find another? It had not always been so with him, and he wondered if it was not Schala’s seal that still shadowed his heart. Courage, will, fortitude...they all seemed diminished, and he could not easily shake his doubts. And what then, in the midst of all of this, had he thrown himself into? He cursed himself for his choice now. Had he remained at home, as indeed had been his chance, he could have been free of all of this uncertainty.
And so Serge did not feel inclined to visit the tavern much more. Because of Toma’s words warning of war his thoughts hung heavy, and he did not wish to hear about dark premonitions. He instead took to wandering the fields that lay about the village, finding solace in the solitude and beauty of the wild. On occasion he saw fellow travellers, but he did no more than greet them in passing. His days were spent from morning to night listening to the wind and musing on his own mission.
It was better, certainly, than in the town, and his mind was not so quick to bury itself in doubt. But even so he thought more than once of returning home. He assured himself that his coming had not been in vain, and that he had provided some small help. He had accompanied Crono into the castle, and had saved Marle with his timely stroke. But whenever he thought of that the remembrance of the blood on his sword came returned to mind. It was a strange thing that it haunted him so. It hadn’t been an evil thing, and he hadn’t done it out of spite or in cold blood. But even so the thought of having ended two other human lives didn’t sit lightly in his mind.
But he had learned something at least from his many months with his dreams, and he for the most part chose not to think too much on it. It was past, and he could only hope that he would not be called on for such a thing again. That thought, among others, compelled him to go home.
Yet ever and again he would look about. He would see the peaceful woods, filled with tranquil streams, and fields of tall grass swaying as a sea in the breezes, such a form of nature he had never known or imagined. And then would have those visions of rugged paradise shattered on his return to the town. He saw there a people who had a land of beauty comparable to his own, yet lived under such fear and oppression that they could give little thought to things of joy. Rather, they were ever fearing that the following winter might be without food, or that the armies of Porre would destroy them; they remained as an ever present threat in the citadel only a little ways away through the forests. It was for this people that Crono fought. It was for them that the princess Marle had nearly died. A kingdom hoping for heroes as they had once had, yearning for salvation from their conquerors. And the more that Serge saw them, the greater his desire to help them became. Was not the Masamunë, the mightiest sword ever forged by mortal hands, his to command? Was it not his duty, then, to use its power when need came?
CHAPTER X (Part II)
WINDS OF REBELLION
For five days Serge wandered and thought, returning to the house only to assure Crono that he had not abandoned him. All the while Crono cared for his wife, who speedily recovered from her wounds. Though sickness still hovered over her, and a slight fever lingered, she was well enough to stand within half a week. By the end of the fifth day no trace of her injuries, other than the lightest of scars, remained to bear remembrance of her captivity. When Serge returned that night with the setting sun he found her standing in the middle of the house, holding earnest debate with Crono.
“Tomorrow,” she said as Serge entered. “We have no more time. Janus, he will be back then.”
“Maybe,” Crono said. “There is only a chance, however.”
“They have been gone long enough, and Janus does not do things cautiously. Or have you forgotten?”
Crono shook his head.
“He is certainly zealous, I am not contending that.”
“Yes,” Marle replied. “I haven’t seen him in fifteen years, and I don’t want to greet that friend without something to show for it. He would respect it more if we returned successful.”
She turned to Serge, looking him over curiously.
“Now here is one I have not seen much of. Crono says you’ve been out wandering the wold these past five days. Truce not to your liking?”
Serge smiled somewhat at her swift speech.
“Not really. I’ve never been much for crowds and cities.”
“Ah, well then I would warn you never go to Porre,” she answered. “Come to think of it, I’d warn myself about that as well, what with me being an enemy princess and all. But now then, we must make time for our introductions.”
She bowed a little, but cast her head up with a laugh immediately.
“No, I don’t have much care for the formal court greetings. And you know who I am already; Crono’s certainly told you enough about me. Once princess, adventurer, archer,” she paused with a look at Crono, “have I forgotten anything?”
“Hero?” Crono suggested.
“Ah, yes. I’m always forgetting that one. Well, that’s about all there is to me, I think. And you? Crono’s not really told me anything. It seems that he thinks a mysterious sort of introduction is better. So?”
“Well,” Serge said. “I don’t know exactly what to say about myself.”
Crono shrugged.
“He is too modest to give account of his own deeds. It is telling that the sword he carries is the Masamunë.”
Marle’s expression turned to one of wonder.
“The Masamunë? That’s a high calling, my friend. You must have a lot to live up to, being its master; Sir Glenn once wielded it, and he was the greatest of all swordsmen I ever saw, save only my husband. Where is it?” she asked curiously, glancing about the room. Her eyes alighted slowly on its shimmering blades in the corner.
“That is it, isn’t it?” she asked. “Not much like I remember, though. Well, enough about weapons. What else do you have to say for yourself, Serge? I know Crono would hardly have brought you along without good reason.”
Serge ran his hand through his hair.
“I fought Lavos, like I heard you did once. But most everything else I did was only important to my home islands in the west, so they’re really not worth mentioning.”
“Fought Lavos?” Marle asked with a dark curiosity. “When? He has been dead a long time. Or did you travel through time, too? Crono,” she said with a sigh, “I appreciate your concern, but I would have liked to hear these things earlier. So, what of it, then?”
“He lived, Marle,” Crono answered bitterly. “He was a foe greater than we had reckoned with.”
“Accursed hell and Hades,” Marle muttered. “After all we went through, after all we suffered and lost, he didn’t die at all? But the future. We saved it, that was for certain; we saw it ourselves.”
Crono nodded.
“So it seemed. But we had only delayed its destruction for a time. In the end the future had refused to change, for we but sent the dark future to the Tesseract.”
“So we did,” she said with a smile, “our finest hour.”
But Crono shook his head.
“But Lavos found the means and power to return, even from there, it seems. The future apocalypse was condemned, not destroyed, and very nearly had its vengeance. This dark shadow that lingered in the Tesseract is that which Serge destroyed. He finished what we began so long ago.”
“Well, then,” Marle said. “I guess we can hope to finally forget about Lavos, that means. You’ve done us all, and by all I mean all the world, a service, Serge,” and she added: “A brave service; I would not have wanted to face that demon again, I assure you,” she finished with the hint of a shudder.
She looked at the two of them.
“Now, how many of us are there? We’ve got you two. There’s me. And then Janus who’s off gallivanting somewhere in the East. Only four? Though I suppose we are fortunate even for this; who in this world but we care for Guardia, after all?”
“There’s Schala also,” Serge said. “And that makes us five.”
She sighed, with seeming supreme frustration now.
“Crono, that at least you could have told me. The princess Schala? From old Zeal? Last we saw her she was caught in the crumbling Ocean Palace; we thought her surely dead. So Janus actually found her?”
Crono nodded faintly.
“Yes, but by their account only recently, and I myself have not heard from Janus the tale of his quest. He is as silent and subject to his mood as ever. But I can tell at least that his years have been no less than our own, maybe more. He is certainly aged now, and I believe even his hair is being touched by grey at last. Though to little surprise he has declined to tell me what his years are.”
Marle closed her eyes with a second sigh.
“We all age and tire; I feel myself wither with the years, and know that had I been ten years younger, I would not have been captured. But what of the Princess Schala? There is a lot you haven’t told me yet, and before we begin I demand to know it all.”
It was well into that evening before all the tales were told and sorted out. Or as ordered as they might be. Even Serge had difficulty understanding why or how some things had occurred, and could only say that Schala would have to answer when she returned.
They rested only lightly that night, having to sleep with the knowledge that tomorrow they would throw themselves into peril once again. Serge told himself countless times that this was in no way dissimilar to every adventure and quest he had ever embarked upon before, but it was to no avail in allaying his pensive mood. When he rose in the morning, he found himself neither rested nor calmed, and it was with weariness that he made himself ready to depart the house.
Marle, however, was ever ready and alert, despite it being only days since her rescue. Her eyes proclaimed her healed enough, and Crono yielded at last to her decision to strike out for the castle the coming evening. Serge voiced dissent a few times over the course of the day, but could not sway their path; and so it became his road as well.
Two hours after nightfall they set out, three shrinking furtively into the great woods. Crono, as always, bore his great sword sheathed at his side. Also, now, he carried a short yew bow across his shoulder, but was dressed as ever in his rough travel clothes. Marle looked scarce better than he; her robes were hardly royal and, if her eyes looked clearer, her face still bore the traces of scars that ran deeper than magic could mend. Over her shoulder was slung a strange form of weapon, or at least one unlike to any which Serge had ever seen. Its short bow lay bound fast to the far end of a shaped handle. It seemed that the string could be held taut and poised, so that the firing might be delayed without the need for much strength.
“A crossbow,” Crono replied to his questioning look. “In an age of cruel empires wielding rifles, it might still be thought a useful weapon. It is more precise, and no armour of the Empire can hold against a bolt.”
It was show of the strange fortunes that befell with conquest. A hundred years ago Serge’s people were fishermen and hunters arrayed with simple nets and bows. Now a rifle was a common sight, and yet such an archaic weapon as a crossbow that fell in-between the two had never been seen.
But all things had begun to turn to odd ends. Serge himself no longer dressed as one of El Nido, but had adopted the Guardian raiment of clothes long and loose, dyed in drab silvan shades. This for the twofold purpose of warmth and secrecy. The days had begun to shorten, and had become very much colder even in these past few days. It had been a great surprise to Serge to awaken one morning to find the grass crowned with frost, and had discovered that his southern clothes were hardly of any aid when the dew itself froze. Thereafter he had cast aside his long worn clothing favour of the much warmer dress of a Guardian peasant. And the second purpose was one that Crono himself had insisted upon. Though he allowed Serge to still wear his loose coat of mail, which itself was less uncommon here in Guardia than in El Nido, his traditional clothes of bright blue and stark black would draw the attention of even the dullest eyes.
And so as he set out for a second time for the castle, in the company of two others rather than only one, he looked to be no different than any young man of the land, unless it was his sun darkened skin that betrayed his birthland.
“And once again, into the tombs,” Crono whispered at the base of the walls. It amazed Serge constantly with what assurance his leader carried himself. Whatever doubts plagued him, if any, remained buried beyond sight or perception. Not without reason did others look to him for guidance.
Even as the last time they crept down the crevice. By the light of the Masamunë they again passed through the catacombs, though they were now as silent as wraiths. No whispered words of explanation, their footfalls might have been those of death itself.
They came up the stairs, and into the cathedral. Behind the door to the tombs was shut again, to the eyes no more than a stone wall.
But Serge had no more than a moment’s glance in its direction; Crono led them quickly onward, following the very same path that the two alone had trod only days before. It was a great comfort, however, to have seen the hidden door yet undisturbed; if they were found it would be the surest means of escape.
On reaching the choir. Crono paused, taking a glance at Marle.
“The walls?” he asked shortly. “Or the courtyard? You know this fortress somewhat better than I do.”
“The walls,” she said, “though I think they are the more dangerous of two.”
And so they went on, not climbing downward, but across to where the cathedral met the battlements. It was more ardourous then before as well, for the holds by which they made their way were difficult to find. But even so they found the wall more swiftly than might be thought.
And it was well that they found it at that moment also for, even as Serge leaped onto the flat stone of the east battlements, they saw the door of a small guardhouse, that stood a dozen metres along the wall, open. Without a moment of thought, Marle sprang forward. A soldier stepped out, only to be silenced with the blade edge of the knife before he could make a sound.
“Where must we go now?” Crono asked of Marle. “Do you know of where they meet?”
She returned her blood darkened knife to its scabbard.
“I wager the throne room. That is likely where they would hold a debate in war matters.”
She traced her finger through the night, pointing along the battlements and up the winding stairs that encircled the keep till she motioned to a high window.
“That is our path, and that is where we must go. You two need only to guard me; the shot will be mine to make.”
They made to continue, but Crono halted Serge.
“Take this,” he whispered, handing him the bow and quiver from his back. “If it comes to fighting, it would be best to keep them at bowshot.”
“I can’t shoot,” Serge said, but his protest was silenced with a smiling nod from Crono.
“No matter. Do what you can. An arrow overhead is almost as good as an arrow through the heart. We need not kill them, only keep them from coming upon us until we make good our escape.”
Taking the weapon and words with uncertainty, Serge followed the two along the walls.
Presently they came to the join between the walls and keep, where a small stair led into the keep and then up to the high levels above. This path they took, ever so quiet and watchful. When at last they came to the floor at which the window lay, they cautiously crept from the stairs and out beneath the eaves that rimmed the level above. Though high upon the wall of the keep, a hundred feet from the courtyard below, this was not so perilous a climb as the one across the cathedral had been. The edge upon which they crept ran the wall round, and was wide enough that two might have gone abreast. They came to the window soon enough; Marle, at the head, stole a fleeting glance through the window. He turned and nodded to Crono.
“It is they. The general, and his captains.”
She removed a length of rope from her pack, and wound it tightly about a jutting decoration that adorned the edge of the ledge, assuring herself of its strength with a short pull. Their escape would need to be quick, and could afford no delays once the deed was done.
She returned to the window, her fingers grasping her weapon tightly.
A hunter waiting to spring upon unwary prey, was the thought that came to Serge as he saw Marle there. Her eyes were keenly intent, and discerningly swept the gathering below. Though he kept to the shadows, he knew that there must be a large company of leaders in the throne room; he could hear their voices echoing high and into the night.
“Our problem might be our armies amassing quickly enough,” Serge heard from below. “My General, the Eastern Reserves will be ready at your call, but I cannot speak for my comrades here.”
“Well, then?” came the reply, from a deeper and surer voice that was undoubtedly that of the aged general. “What say you, captains? Are your forces ready to crush a rebellion of starving peasants?”
A shrill laugh resounded throughout the hall.
“The good captain of the East does not give us due credit, I think,” another voice replied to the others. “We are ever ready in the West, and could even fight Acacians if need compelled us to. And I believe that my words speak for the South as well.”
“They do, most certainly. Not from the South will failure come,” a fourth affirmed, who was certainly the commander of the southern armies.
“But what of our Guard?” the voice of the Eastern commander called out. “Our auxiliary legions are ready, it appears, but is our vaunted Imperial Guard prepared? What of the Black Wind? Or have they had their hand in shadow work so long that they have forgotten what it means to fight a war on the field?”
“Good commander, I would that you not insult my legion so lightly. Small in number though we may be, it is not without reason that we are feared more than a legion of your own troops.”
And this, Serge knew at once, was Norris.
“Yes, Captain Norris, you and your damned wizards,” one of the other army commanders scoffed. “If we had our say, the only sorcerers that the Empire would suffer would be those Mystic fools that we pay to fight for us. A lot of good it does you, as it is. Two years, and you fail to catch one brigand.”
“A hero, I must remind you. The prince is a greater foe than you three have ever dealt with. Once only did I see him in battle. He massacred a troop of my crack men, alone. And they say he has passed through time itself.”
“It would be wise not to fill your mind with fairy tales, Norris,” came the reply. “If you begin believing such stories, we may have reason to doubt your sanity.”
“Have you not read the histories of this country, Commander Morgawaise?” Norris said so softly that it could barely be heard. “How do you account for the defeat of the Mystics four hundred years ago? Guardia numbered twenty thousands; the Mystics, it is said, marched north more than one hundred thousand strong. But they say that when all hope was lost a stranger arose and assaulted the very fortress of the sorcerer Janibas. They say it was none other than the prince; if this is true, he is not one to be caught lightly.”
“Come now!” the shrill voice of the Western commander replied. “We all know that it was only good fortune, as so often happens in war. As for the matter of this brigand, maybe the General should have let the military handle the matter rather than the Imperial Guard.”
“Maybe the General knows better what he does than the good commander,” Norris said with what seemed to be a calm anger. “It was not the Black Wind that allowed the princess Nadia to escape. But is not her capture to our credit?”
“You think too much of yourself, Norris,” the commander said disdainfully.
“Hardly. I simply think little of you fools. I counselled against the execution of the princess, for the very reason we sit here now!” Norris cried, his voice rising loud now. “You have driven Guardia to rebellion, I fear. Only time will tell if you are fortunate, or bring down ruin on us all.”
“He wouldn’t have executed her. I told you, I know him. He isn’t evil,” Serge said to Crono, but was silenced with a dark stare.
“What he said means only that he is cunning, Serge. He did not want to kill Marle for his own ends; had he held us both, I think our deaths by his hand would have been assured. Do not mistake calculated patience for mercy. Even if you are right, such deliberations are not for today.”
Marle turned about and took up her crossbow.
“Enough listening to their endless debates,” she muttered. “They won’t say anything that we don’t know or cannot guess at. But their bickering gives us hope; there will be division among their leaders concerning who should take generalship.”
Pulling a bolt noiselessly from her quiver, Marle shrunk back to the shadows. Her slender fingers expertly drew back the bow of the crossbow, placing the taut string upon the catch.
“For Guardia,” she whispered resolutely to Crono, clasping her hand in his.
He nodded.
“For the land of freedom, and all those who seek to be free,” he responded. “Try not to miss,” he added, with the hint of a smile.
Not replying, but casting a glance of mock annoyance upon him, Marle stole towards the window wherein she saw the General far below. Carefully and slowly she and placed the bolt before the string. With utmost concentration she took aim with her weapon. Serge saw that her arms trembled slightly as she did so, though her eyes remained unwavering upon her prey.
“The sting of Guardia,” Marle whispered, tightening her finger about the trigger.
With hardly a sound the bolt leaped from her weapon, the crossbow recoiling violently in her hands. But sure and true the bolt fled. With a heart riven in two, the general fell dead even as he sat in counsel with his commanders. So sudden it was that for a moment that seemed near endless not a word, not a sound was heard inside or out. But only for an instant, for as the astonishment abated from the captains, their fear turned to alarm and anger.
“To the walls!” Serge heard a commander yell. “We are under attack! They have slain the general!”
“This would tend to be the best time to flee,” Marle said, slinging her crossbow over her shoulder, “Our work is done here.”
Immediately taking her counsel they cautiously slid down the rope a hundred feet down into the courtyard. But even as they did a bell tolled somewhere in the keep, raising the alarm. There would be no easy escape now.
A cry rang out.
An archer on the battlements had spotted them as they ran across the yard. Serge swept an arrow out of his quiver and struck it to his bow, taking his aim at the distant soldier. A bolt whistled past his ear. Serge pulled taut the string till he could no more, and let it slip. The arrow flew from his bow and, with fortunate deadly accuracy that startled him, struck the soldier in the chest. Where he fell they did not see. Serge turned to Crono with a relieved smile but started, as shocked as the company of gods when that accursed mistletoe rove the heart of Baldur the Beautiful. For the bolt that has so narrowly missed him had struck Marle in the chest. She gasped shortly, drawing at a fleeting breath. She stumbled forward a step, striving to remain standing despite the pain that burned as fire in her chest. But her arms yielded their strength and her crossbow slipped from her fingers; it fell to the ground with a clatter that resounded throughout the courtyard. Tears welled up in her eyes as she struggled against the agony of the wound, but for all her bravery it was mortal and she faltered, her legs yielding beneath her though she willed them to stand. She clutched at the arrow as she dropped to the ground, her face still fighting the pain that beset her. Crono was at her side in a heartbeat, his arms steadying her fall.
He held her in his arms, oblivious to the darkening blood that stained his clothes. They said not a word, but merely looked on each other, uncountable sadness in their eyes as her life’s blood drained slowly away. Serge could do no more than watch. The arrow had struck too near her heart and was seemingly venomed with a fell poison. It was fatal, he knew, for no magic either of them possessed even together could hope to mend such a wound. This Crono saw, too. Yet he could not believe that she, his wife who had defied the mighty Lavos, should end this way. Marle was now overcome by the pain at last, and the tears streamed down her pale face. So too did Crono weep, agony burning his spirit. Her body quivered in his arms as he held her tight, unwilling to abandon all hope. He kissed her gently on her cold lips, hoping perhaps to give her some strength. But it was to no avail. Yet even as her body gave up its life her spirit remained strong, and she spoke to Crono one last time, reminding him to recall his courage and valour, for she knew her end had come, but his was not upon him yet.
“Farewell, Crono. My heart is stilled. Take care of yourself now. What has come has come. You must now continue alone for Guardia. Guardia needs you, never forget, it will always need you. Ultimum vale...and don’t forget me...”
Crono ran his hand through her hair, and kissed her once more, his tears falling like rain on her face. With her last strength she smiled at him. And then her life left her and she died.
Long Crono sat motionless, cradling her lifeless body in his arms, hoping that by some miracle life would be recalled to it. But by no magic nor act of God did her spirit return. And Crono grieved, as deeply as anyone ever had, finally overcome and his spirit crushed. Laying her gently to rest on the stone he stood and looked at Serge. But his eyes were hollow, and it seemed to Serge that with the passing of her fire, Crono’s soul had fled as well; his hands and clothes were dyed red in her blood, but he did not care nor notice.
His sword swept out. With a blank gaze he stared with transfixed eyes at its shining blade, now a pale sheen, a grim reflection of his heart. For his desire for life had ended with Marle’s own. His being had been bound to hers, and hers to his. So all had now lost its meaning. Guardia, Porre, and everything he had ever done was forgotten to him. As he prepared to throw himself on the blade Serge did nothing to stay him, both unsure and frightened by what he saw.
Yet, even as Crono prepared to seek some meagre comfort in death, the last words of Marle returned to him as the whisper of a midnight wraith: ‘Guardia will always need you, never forget...’. Had she not with her dying breath reminded him to remember his valour? He held his sword before him, some of the life returning to his eyes. With her last strength she had reminded him of what he must do yet, of his duty as prince. That he would honour, her last admonition to him. He whispered quietly to her body, his grief now replaced by a calm rage.
“No, I will not die today, and not by my own hand. You are wiser than me and spoke truly. Guardia must be restored.”
He placed his sword to rest on the ground beside her; the blade was no longer fully pale, but touched with a faint gleam of crimson.
“With this blade shall you be avenged in blood, Marle, princess of Guardia, foe of Lavos.” His face darkened. “And may it damn your foes to Hades. I shall never forget you, though all else fade. Farewell...”NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! :bowser:
Doing good, as always, excuse me for a moment… wipes eyes ;_;
I think this first thread page is getting a little lengthy. Oh, well. This is another longer (>10,000 word) chapter, so once again it’ll be in two parts. And be gracious to me regarding the OC that appears near the end; that character was born when I had barely begun writing this. Rest assured that I have attempted as best I might to put as little focus as I can on him (and most certainly he is far more minor than any of the main chacters, by far.)
CHAPTER XI (Part I)
SPARKS TO KINDLING
“Crono!” Serge whispered urgently and pointed to the distant battlements. Despite the cry of the archer, their presence in the square had, by good chance, gone unnoticed. But now the walls of the castle were alive with running soldiers, and Serge knew it was only moments, if so long, before they were spotted.
“Crono, we have to get out of here!” he said with a quickening pulse. Uncertainty, fear, and a keen shock swept over him; his hands shook and were pale.
Crono was slow to respond, the pain of death still visible in his eyes.
“Yes,” he said with a soulless voice. “Serge, help me with her.”
He stooped lifting Marle’s body to his shoulders. Serge indeed thought it unwise to attempt escape while burdened, but was neither willing nor able to argue with Crono, who had suffered enough already. Together they bore her body out of the square with all the speed their wills could grant them, and tried for the cathedral.
But they had tarried too long, and even as they crossed the great stone threshold, the enemy was upon them. But their foes knew little of them, or of the fury that was alive in Crono’s heart. Two fell with death enshrouded eyes at the door: one to an arrow of Serge’s, the other riven through the heart by Crono’s merciless blade. The others fell back for an instant, daunted by the wrath that burned in his face, and fearing his blade that shimmered darkly with red blood.
Seeing the momentary fear of his foes, Serge pulled with all his might on the wooden doors of the cathedral and, with a crash that echoed throughout the open sanctuary, shut them fast in the faces of his enemies.
“Crono, we have to leave her!” he said to Crono as he barred the doors, his voice echoing loudly in the vast stone chamber. He painfully shook his fingers, that had twice now fired a fatal arrow. “Otherwise we won’t make it out of here alive ourselves!” he added with somewhat of a tremble to his voice.
“Then you go, Serge. I’ve asked more of you already than I should have. I’ll take her myself. If I die my fate will be no worse than hers.”
Serge sighed. Whatever would happen, he would not abandon his friend.
“Okay, I’ll help you,” he said. “But we have to hurry. They’ll blast the doors any minute.”
Across the sanctuary they ran, between the many rows of pews that sat dusty and unused. But her limp body slowed them greatly, and even as they entered the hidden entrance to the catacombs they heard the echo of the explosion that marked the destruction of the doors. Necessity rallying their strength, they ran through the crypts, praying that the Porre soldiers still knew nothing of these tunnels. Around them the withered visages of the long departed once more watched them pass with sightless eyes. And the air down there was sickly stale, all the more slowing their already burdened flight. But their prayers were certainly answered, and it was long before the men of Porre discovered the entrance and further crypts. And, when they finally did, their prey had slipped out of that place of resting death and into the great forest that girded the castle.
Then the two were again in dire peril, for the commanders of Porre were stubborn beyond what they had counted on, and many soldiers were sent out into the forest in patrols of three and four. Many a time Crono and Serge, spent and unable to fight, only just managed to slip into the darkness as a troop passed their way. Indeed, the soldiers were thorough as to their orders. But for all their searching, the men of Porre hailed from a land of rolling plains and had little woodcraft. Though burdened and weary, Crono and Serge soon lost them in the dark woods. When the last patrols had finally faded away, and only the sounds of the night greeted their ears, they stopped. Finding an open space they placed Marle’s body to rest in a shallow grave that they dug with their hands, and covered with earth. All the while they did not speak, the stars shining brightly between the dark trees overhead, seemingly unaware of the mortal sadness that lay below. When they had finished Crono strew wildflowers over the mound, and lamented her death with great sorrow, singing songs to her grave.
Finally he took to staring at her grave with tear clouded eyes, whispering with quivering words: “Marle, Marle. Once beloved. Now beloved. Beloved for all eternity. May even the angels weep at your passing.”
It was long before he said any words to Serge. When he finally did, they were filled with sadness, and Serge could see he fought back his tears only with great difficulty.
“She would have liked to rest here in the forest amongst the trees. She never cared much for formalities, not from the first day I knew her.”
A pale and sad smile swept his lips.
“Oh, how clearly I remember that day even now. But time is so cruel. Twenty years: so much time in measure, yet so little in mind.”
He looked down at her grave for a space, then slowly drew his eyes upward.
“No greater place for her to lie. For this, Serge, this clearing here is the very glade from where we first journeyed into the future. That very place,” he said pointing to a dark corner of the space. He looked at Serge.
“Go, Serge. My plans are unwound, and I must re-weave them. I would wish to be left alone for a while, to contemplate what course our fortunes should now take. And for this I must have peace...”
He knelt once more over the grave.
“Serge, hasten! Tell Janus and Schala; for they must be told. Tell them I have failed in my vows to the one I have loved beyond the world itself...but rest assured I will find you again, if you will only wait.”
Serge took an uncertain step backwards, then paused; he did not wish to abandon Crono now, not like this: alone, bereft of Marle, and defeated.
Crono smiled weakly, understanding that Serge felt himself constrained by the friendship that lay between them.
“You are a faithful friend, Serge, but do not worry yourself over my fate. My heart is indeed broken forever, but my will at least shall hold sway over me for a while yet.”
Serge opened his mouth to speak, to say anything to perhaps console his friend, but thought the better of it, knowing no apt words of comfort. With a small nod he left Crono there, kneeling over the grave of his beloved, and ran off into the cold dark of the forest.
Hours later he found himself upon Truce again. Rushing through the house door he found both Janus and Schala but lately returned from their quest. They sat near to the dying fire in the hearth, playing chess in grave silence. At Serge’s sudden entrance they both looked up in alarm, much surprised by the sudden interruption.
“Serge?” Janus asked, rising from his seat. “What has happened? I sense some evil has occurred.”
But Serge did not know the way in which to respond. Janus had been an old friend of the Princess. A comrade in arms of hers he, as Crono, had fought countless battles at her side. And so Serge feared the wrath he would show at these bitter tidings. Moreover the grief of the death had now come full upon Serge himself, and so he was unwilling to speak of it.
“Serge?” Janus asked again, gripping him by the shoulders and looking him gravely in the eyes. “I feel some darkness in your mind. And a dark wind chills my soul of late, a portent of dread I know all too well. I charge you to tell me: who has died?”
Without a word Serge stepped over to where the half finished game of chess sat, and sullenly knocked the white queen clattering to the floor. Then wordlessly, as Janus stood aghast over the meaning in this, he took leave of their company and stepped outdoors again.
Having been standing at rest for a short time, the cool night air once again stung at him. And yet he did not care so much now as he had in days before. Perhaps he was beginning to become accustomed to the weather, or maybe he was only too shaken to think overmuch on it. Finding a dark corner of the building where light of neither moon nor house shone he sat himself down. Upon his mind the full meaning of the events now took hold. The past was set as it was: Marle was dead, and no powers that any of them, Janus as well, possessed could reawaken the dead to true life. But the previous night the future had been so clear, the days ahead planned out in strategy and cunning. Yet they had been grievously overconfident, not accounting that one of them should die. Now where did they stand? All their stratagems were but ashes in fate’s merciless wind, and their captain had left them with only a doubtful promise of return.
“What happened happens to all who seek such paths, Serge,” Janus said, coming out of the shadows that hung about the corners of the building.
“Don’t you feel any sadness, Janus?” he asked of his friend, feeling a sudden surge of anger that even now the wizard was unyieldingly cold hearted. At the death, moreover, of one whom he had once called friend.
“Of course he does,” Schala said, coming up beside Serge and kneeling at his side. “He is not pitiless. But he knows also the truth of what has happened. We, as she was, are warriors by destiny. Death is not unknown to those who live by the sword and spilled blood.”
Janus leaned back against the wall, and Serge saw that his face was sorrowful, though his words were plain.
“Serge, it was her fate. Weep we may for what the webs of fate place across our path, but know that things are not ended by her death. Tomorrow still comes, dawn will arise once more, and new days await us with the morning sun. But tell me now ere anything else is said. What happened that this should befall?”
And then Serge, though in no wise assuaged in his sorrow, told of what had chanced. Of her daring rescue even moments before her execution. Of the harrowing flight out of the castle, and her coming to safety. And of the ill fated plan to bring discord to their enemies.
“Curses,” Janus muttered angrily. “Had I been there, things may have been otherwise. That Crono did not welcome me along...”
But Schala cut into his words sternly.
“Yes, otherwise! But not surely for the better. Who knows how that would have gone, for all then would have been changed. You of all men should know that the intricacies of future, past, and fate are not to be trifled with, and can scarce be understood. Perhaps it would have been your life fate would have taken, in place of hers.”
Janus seemed about to speak against this, but calmed himself, knowing the truth in the words.
“And now things continue as they have been set. Though evil the day, perhaps the morn will bring us better tidings...” he continued looking outward to the darkness, thinking intently.
“He’s not coming back for a while. Janus, I left him crying over the body of his wife, in the middle of a forest glen. If he comes back at all, it will be a long time before he does,” Serge said, thinking on the last words he had exchanged with Crono.
But Janus shook his head, smiling.
“Crono will return,” he said, looking back at Serge. “His spirit is far stronger than you seem to account him. Indomitable and mighty, even after so great an injury. For you have never seen him at his greatest, as he was when we destroyed the great demon Lavos. In that hour most would have thought him like to some god of old, such was his might and glory. I am glad that in the days that come now I shall be accounted his friend, and not enemy.”
“But you think he’s coming back soon?” Serge asked skeptically. All that he had seen of Crono seemed to show that it would be long before he would return to captain them.
Janus laughed grimly, fingering the faint trace of a scar across his face.
“Do you see this, Serge? This was my reward for thinking him defeated long ago when I was his bitter foe. Oh, so little you know of him, Serge. Even as you left him his decisions were made, and most difficult it would be now for anyone to sway the counsel of his mind in this matter. I judge that he shall now bring such a war upon the lands as has not been seen since the ages of Rome’s conquests a thousand years ago.”
“You really think that he’ll start a thing like that?” Serge asked disbelieving that his friend who at the first had seemed so calm and friendly could bring an entire nation to open bloody war, and seek to command its people.
“What might be called a war in these latter days, yes,” Janus replied.
“Moreover, he already has, Serge,” Schala broke in, rising and wandering out to into the yard, casting an absent gaze East across the lands shrouded in all veiling night, “The mission he had bidden me and Janus undertake is accomplished. For now the people are rising up in the East of Guardia. The fishing hamlets and fortress towns at the seaside are alerted. There is no matter of questions concerning what will follow. War is a surety.”
Serge now stood, finally seeing how far things had come in this one short week. He was finding it a little disconcerting that he was now irrevocably drawn into this conflict; he could not leave anymore.
“When?” he asked, his mind now rallying itself to firm resolution to this course laid out by Crono.
“Even as we left the East the people were gathering. Tomorrow they will begin to meet, on the fields of Truce, ten miles west of here.”
“But, how will we tell Crono? Will he come back here tonight?”
Janus shook his head.
“No, he will not return this night. Tomorrow we will see him again, I deem. Though not here, and not in secret as his habit as been so far. Do you remember what he spoke to me ere I set out? He told me that Truce itself he could rally on his own. That is where we shall find him on the morrow.”
The next day began as grim as could be. The clouds hung low and grey, ever threatening to rain, as if in grief themselves. Twice in the morning the three abandoned the safety of the house and wandered the streets of Truce. Finding no sign of Crono either time, they returned somewhat disheartened. Even so Schala urged them to wait before despairing of Crono’s return. Morning gave way to midday. The sun finally broke from between the clouds, and the threat of rain fled.
And still they saw no sign of their friend.
The sun began the second part of its Westerly march, and with the afternoon came a full clearing of the sky. Twice more the three crept out and sought for some sign of Crono. But the afternoon was as fruitless as the morning had been. As the sun came nearer the horizon, even Schala began to grow concerned, thinking that perhaps Crono would not come.
“I had not expected things to come to such an end,” Schala confided to Serge as she glanced out the window. “I had thought this to be but a beginning, a start to trying times.”
She sauntered away from the window.
“Perhaps he is simply biding his time, or else still grieving,” she said thoughtfully and hopefully.
“Maybe,” Serge said. “I think we’re expecting too much of him. Janus, I know you said that he’d be back today, but I really think that we have to give him more time.”
Janus shook his head.
“He will come today, or he will never come,” he stated, rising from where he sat.
Igrayne brought a cup of tea to Schala, who gratefully took it.
“Thank you,” she murmured, taking a small taste of the drink. “I think we should go out one more time before nightfall,” she said, glancing out the window.
“I don’t think he’s coming, Kid,” Serge said, leaning against the wall. “His wife just died. Right in front of his eyes. It very nearly killed him,” he shook his head, “It even upset me,” he added.
“I’m going anyway,” Schala said. “You coming, Serge? Janus?” she asked, glancing about.
“Sure, whatever,” Serge said, throwing himself away from the wall. He would be trapped in the house all night, after all.
“Janus?” Schala asked of her brother, who had sat down once again.
He shook his head, and showed the hint of a scowl.
“I shall stay. I am finding little use in this incessant hoping. If he comes, very well. If not, there is nothing we can do. If I stay or go is of little consequence.”
The day was near spent as they stepped out the door. It had been a grim day of dashed hopes, one such as even a tranquil dusk could not shake. But the people, walking the streets as if it were any other day, were unaware that their princess, their hero, lay now dead in a simple grave amidst the trees. A sad thing to see, maybe, for, while the look of anger and resentment for their oppressors was plain in the eyes of every man and woman, this was a strong willed people and it was merely a reason and kindling fire to hope in better days that would be assured once Porre had been driven away. A hope that had suddenly become far dimmer, though they did not know it.
“Pardon me, my lady,” a man said, halting them as they crossed the main square. “Do you know what news comes from the East?”
She turned sharply on him, her eyes glinting warily. A man of Guardia, but any might be a traitor, she knew.
“I hear some,” she said. “I hear of dissent, and anger. Why do you ask?”
“Only because I have family in the East, and I was told that some great lords had come among us, proclaiming that rebellion was near at hand. And that our King would lead us to salvation in the coming days.”
She relented her guard somewhat at these plainly spoken words.
“Fate is a coiled snake waiting to strike,” she said. “At one end it seems fair enough, but venom and death lie at the other. And it can turn even as quickly. Your king will return, and so prepare for war. But I counsel you if you are wise to heed me and not welcome such days, for they might bring more of tears than joy.”
She stepped quickly away, not affording the man any reply, if he could even give any to such cryptically spoken words. She had mingled hope with advice true though bitter.
“The people are waiting,” Serge said to her. “Even without Crono, they know what’s coming.”
“And yet if he does not come, he will have sealed their death,” she answered faintly, as if half to herself.
“Do you realise, Serge,” she continued, “the graveness of this thing now begun? If they rise up, and he does not lead them, they will be doomed to ruin, for Porre will mercilessly crush this rebellion and burn Guardia to ashes.”
“But then you can lead them, Schala,” Serge answered. “If Crono doesn’t come back, you can be their leader. You’re a queen, after all.”
She shook her head.
“A princess, Serge; only the fallen princess of a fallen land. I, lead Guardia? Maybe I could, and yet then it might be Porre that would then be mercilessly burned. I do not trust my own zeal to be restrained, if I would seek to command so many.”
A strange thing for her to say, Serge thought at once. The girl he had known was certainly rash, but Schala was the embodiment of restraint and caution, and he wondered at her words. He might have asked her but, on a sudden, in the midst of the crowded square, someone shouted aloud. A figure had appeared on the roof of the tallest building, its cape billowing in the wind. A sword was in its hand, and a dark cape bound about its neck.
It was Crono, standing proud and tall. He flourished his sword and lifted the blade high above his head.
“People of Truce, children of Guardia!” he cried out. Every head turned to look at him. His gaze swept over them from on high, and a smile was on his lips. To them they were not only his subjects, but his countrymen; his brothers and sisters.
“To you today I bring grim tidings. I have lost my wife, but in this my pain is not wholly my own. With her death you have lost both your princess and queen, stricken down by the venomed arrow of a Porre soldier.”
People murmured amongst themselves, understanding suddenly who this was, and grieving over the death of Marle. She had always acted a commoner in their midst, and had ever championed their causes before her father, the last king. Crono continued, seeing that with his words he had their attention in thrall.
“It has been fifteen long years since our beloved land fell to the armies of Porre. Too long have I waited to set things right. I shall no longer.”
From a patrol guard a shot rang out and struck the wood at Crono’s side. Yet he stood undaunted, his voice not faltering. It still rang loud and clear in the ears of the people.
“Her death, and the death of every one of our kinsmen to fall at the hands of Porre must be, and will most certainly be, avenged! As your prince I vow that whatsoever may follow I shall not rest till the last of these accursed soldiers have been driven from the lands of our home! Not till the black dragon flies once more from the tower of Guardia!”
Two more shots rang out, the splintering wood flying up around him. Yet still unmoved he stood, and appeared to his people as a hero, mighty and warlike. Standing on high, his figure silhouetted in the rising sun with his sword blazing golden in his raised hands and defying the weapons of his enemies, he seemed as an immortal who could not be slain, wielding great power.
“I call now to my banners and service all who would hearken to my cry. Who among you will aid me in this!?”
A great cry rang out from all the people, and the lone soldiers whose weapons had fired at Crono dared not stay them out of mortal fear. Too long had the people suffered; his words were like fire in their hearts, and they set their anger ablaze.FREEEEEEEEEEDOOOOOOMMM!! paints face blue
Ah, yes. So it does indeed appear. And even more so later; I had to tone down Crono’s pre-battle speech in Chapter 13 before the field-battle on the fields of Truce because, looking back on it months after having written it, saw a plain Braveheart influence in that speech giving; I cut out most of it for that very reason (though I am still very fond of battle speeches. Dramatic monologues are quite easy to write.)
Anyway, I would have posted the remainder of the chapter at the same time as the first part, but things got hung up when I clicked submit, and so I decided to wait a while. Here’s the rest.
CHAPTER XI (Part II)
SPARKS TO KINDLING
Long Crono stood there, the sun blazing golden-red behind him. When it finally set Crono came down from the building and met with his people. Before he even reached the ground they were around him, greeting him joyously and crying out to him, asking him if their day of freedom was at long last near. Of this he assured them, but the day was already old, and ere long the assembly had dispersed. They all knew, peasant and knight alike, that rest and strength was what was needed now.
And the next day was a day to be remembered, indeed.
“The twentieth of October, by the reckoning of our calender,” Crono said with a smile, glancing over at Serge. “A day that we will all remember, if we should live through these dark weeks that are now coming. The day that the peasants of the small land of Guardia gathered in force to challenge the might of the great empire of Porre.”
It was a certainly a grand sight to see. The rallying of Guardia had been more swift than any could have foreseen. And greater, as well. From Truce and a hundred other towns and villages they had come: peasants, farmers, craftsman and old knights. An army six thousand strong. And they were all gathered in a single plain, the fields that lay upon the eaves of the great Wood of Guardia, West of Truce by ten miles.
“Such a force this land has not seen since the Great War with the Sorcerer, over four hundred years ago,” Crono said with a glance about him.
The four of them strode across the plain, watching the people set up camp. It thrilled Serge’s heart to see the zeal possessed by this people, and the willingness with which they followed Crono. Many tents were already raised, and makeshift stables and armouries could be seen aplenty. And, though war was now undoubtedly approaching, the mood of the people was unmistakably cheerful. Ever they heard the glad whispers of the people, joyously telling each other in hopeful voices that ere winter Guardia would be theirs again. And Crono they regarded as both a King and Hero alike.
As he passed through the gathered crowd of people, many rushed up to greet him, anxious to meet their new lord in person. These Crono greeted warmly, once again assuring them of his vow to restore Guardia. Indeed, the people were on his side, and his words were as law to them who had yearned fifteen years for their king.
Most were villagers, peasants from the surrounding countryside, and so unarmed for war. But scattered among these was the odd old warrior, or youth dressed in a father’s armour. Some of these called out to Crono, for many he had known years before. One or two he greeted especially, being friends of his of old. He paused before one such warrior, a scarred knight in steel armour tarnished with age. The hair that fell long from his head was white with years, yet despite his old age he still had the noble and strong bearing of a great knight, subdued little even so late in life. His sword, though not nearly a peer of Crono’s, was a mighty, ancient looking weapon with a short cross and a broad blade.
“Hadrian? Lord Hadrian?” Crono said in surprise, for he had not expected to see him.
“Yes indeed, my Lord Crono, or should I say, my Lord Frey?” he said with the hint of a laugh, bowing to one knee. Rising again he smiled. “Nay, you have ever despised that name, as I well remember. You might treat it with more respect; it is an ancient name, and if you are wise you would not spurn such a gift. No matter; I will call you what you will. I shall not reproach my Lord for such trivial things on the edge of war. But it makes me glad that you still remember an old warrior such as myself. We have not seen each other in many a year.”
“No, not since those early days of our resistance did we fight along side each other. How long has it been now? Fifteen years?”
“Nearly. A month less such a space. And it is a joy for my old eyes to see thee again, in such mighty company, moreover. You must be thankful for their aid.”
“As I shall be for yours! Who else is with you? Are Lord Balan and Sir Balyn and the other knights of my table come as well? They were mighty and fearless warriors in their day. They would have taken an entire legion alone, had they been commanded to.”
But at the mention of their names a cloud fell over Hadrian’s face.
“No, they have not come. Nor shall they ever. You forget what long years have passed since those days. The brothers Balan and Balyn are dead nigh on two years now, stricken by the hand of old age. And so it is with many of the others: with Lot, and with Launceor, Lord of the Shorelands; their beards were grey long before mine. And Albert of the Wold; wishing rather to die by the sword than age I have heard it said he ambushed a Porre company alone. Two men fell to his blade ere he himself was slain. And even I now decay and feel my death near.”
“Are none of the great knights yet living then? What of Sir Bors, or Sir Bedivere?”
Hadrian shook his head as Crono spoke.
“Of the old lords, I am the last. You have heard of none of this?”
“No,” Crono said. “Alas, I hid you all too well. I myself do not know where many of my old company are hidden, and of most I have heard little. A brigands ears are at needs sharp, but not nearly enough so, it seems. I can only hope that they hear of my summons now. Yet that is ill news of Balan and the others for they, as you will be, should have been my captains in this war. Too long did I wait, I see.”
“Perhaps, but patience also yields benefits; it is near always more laudable than rash and unthoughtful acts. Ah, a word from the old and fading, for I see our generation has now passed. Yours leads now, with better skill then we did in our time, I pray. The waning life of Guardia depends on that hope. I am one of the last of the old Guardia knighthood that can still fight, though with what skill, I know not. But I shall accomplish what I can before I breathe my last, and I will not yield my life gently.”
Crono smiled in memory of some old battle.
“Never for an instant would I have thought otherwise of you. But what of the others? The old knights of Guardia, you say, have passed. But what of the younger? The squires and such that fled with our company before I scattered us into hiding? Surely they live yet. Some I have even seen through the years.”
“Cunning Sir Amalek and my own son have ridden with me. Both now are full grown in strength, and of your age. Of the others, I have heard little. Or, shall I say, little good. The last I heard, near on six months ago now, was that they were driven into the Dire Woods...”
“What is this?” Crono rasped, startled by this unexpected news. “That is news I had not heard nor looked for. So they gathered together again, then, despite my commands to await me?”
“Do not fault them now. Fifteen years is long, and patience is scarce in the young. I remember you in your youth. Reckless, foolish, hot-headed. Heedless of advice and wisdom, full of pride over your great deeds. It does not surprise me that the others banded together again, having tired of waiting. Perhaps they sought to find glory for themselves, as you found.”
“I did not seek for glory in any of my deeds, nor for fame! I was compelled by circumstance and fate. As for those fools,” he paused, calming his heated words, “no, I will not speak ill of them now, for it is my fault as it is theirs. So fate deals me another hard stroke; surely they have perished.”
He bowed his head sadly.
“I did not say so with certainty,” the knight replied. “Their fate has been unknown now for months is all I said. But, verily, those woods are not friendly. Dark rumours abound about them. Some say mystics prowl the darkness under the trees. Others maintain ghosts hold their abode there. It is said that the ruins of a great ancient fortress lie hidden in those dark vales, but none have laid eyes upon it for a thousand years.”
“Yes, Tel-Tintagel, the hidden fortress of shadows. Built, it is said, by the hands of Zeal craftsman in ancient times; the last reminder of a once incomparable glory. But not a place to be lightly found, if it even is more than legend. I searched for it myself once, but if enchantments indeed hide it, they beguiled even me. I had hoped to find a store of weapons to arm our people. But that entire region of woods is haunted. If not by the dead, then by some dark of the living. I do not count much on any band surviving long in those shades. So we shall make do without the young knights, though I grieve for their loss; they will be sorely missed on the field. Some were even my own friends, and I had hoped to speak again with them.”
“But they are not the only ones we have lost. I have heard of the death of princess Nadia.”
A shadow of grief passed suddenly across Crono’s face.
“I do not wish to dwell too deeply on the past, most especially not now. I take some comfort in your company, my friend, and that of those who travel with me. But it does not quell the tears of my heart. And I fear that even should Guardia be victorious, I shall not be king.”
“If that is how you are minded, then I think you are wise in saying that you should not speak of this now,” he paused, and looked past Crono. “Who is this? He appears to be a mighty lord!”
Crono turned. Janus had walked up silently behind him.
“Who is the aged knight?” he asked, in a tone of slight mockery. Crono dismissed it, and replied for Hadrian with as much praise as he could make evident in his voice.
“Sir Hadrian, and nowhere could one find a nobler knight. Not even in the courts of Zeal.”
“That, I doubt...” Janus scowled, but he nodded ever so slightly in affirmation, and Hadrian bowed deeply, as though to a king.
“He was once the knight errant of the royal court, but in the days following the fall of our land he, along with Marle and myself, lead a band of warriors against Porre. Yet I disbanded them, for we were hunted mercilessly, and two could hide more easily. But now I hear, to my sorrow, that many have not survived these long years...all the more reason I welcome your aid, Janus.”
“Janus?! That name I know. Though it chills me with dread, it hearkens of a power of ancientry beyond my knowledge,” Hadrian said, with awe. “Is that truly your name, lord?”
Janus nodded, a slight pride showing on his face for being so respected by someone, at the least.
“It is an honour to stand before you, my Lord Janus. You, a sorcerer prince of Zeal. Such help is indeed most welcome! And who may this be?” he asked, seeing Serge. “I do not recognize him from the tales. Unless my eyes deceive me, he is from the south-west.”
He studied Serge for a moment.
“He is a mystery to my wisdom,” Lord Hadrian said at last. “He appears to be a child, yet his eyes betray the sharp glance of a warrior.”
Serge was about to speak, and name himself, but Crono did so first.
“Truly, you do not know him; he is Serge of El Nido. Yet the deeds he has wrought, though remembered in no tale nor song, are greater than that of near any other, even greater than my own. Moreover, he is the wielder and master of the holy sword Masamunë.”
“The Masamunë?” Hadrian gasped, glancing in awe to the weapon that Serge held. “That is the sword of heroes? Not even I in my youth would dare to handle it, nor has any champion in nearly a hundred years! And I had thought it lost to infernal Porre.”
Serge handed the hilt into Hadrian’s hands. The old man took it up graciously, reverence upon his face.
“It is changed since I saw it last,” Hadrian said, running his fingers over the blade. “Then it was as a double edged greatsword. So it would seem that the old legends told of this blade are indeed true, then. That its power is not held in its forged shape, and that the truth of its being is not to be found in this world.”
He handed the weapon back into Serge’s grip.
“If the Masamunë has returned to fight for Guardia, then there is yet hope. Never while our heroes have held that blade has Guardia failed to have the victory.”
With a low bow of farewell, Hadrian stepped backward into the crowd.
As the knight bade Crono farewell, Serge too excused himself from his friend’s company. Schala herself had already wandered off, and he was more eager to follow her than the others.
As Serge left, Crono turned to Janus who continued to walk beside him, walking amidst the various craftsman and the like, preparing their country for war.
“So, what do you think, my old friend? Is this not more than we had ever hoped for?”
Janus frowned, looking over the gathered people sharply.
“This, Crono, is a group of children in matters of war, no more. Not one in ten has ever seen a battle, or even wielded a weapon. And the few that have skill in such things are well beyond their best years, as that knight of yours. But yes, I concede it is impressive, after a fashion. Their loyalty is unyielding. They will follow you to the death, in the scant hope that their freedom will be restored. I have never seen such love and devotion in a people for a king, not even among the Mystics when I ruled them. All the more reason you cannot fail them in this trust.”
Crono shook his head sternly.
“I will not, unless death should take me. I swore to Marle’s grave that I would find no rest till Guardia is remade. And so not think lightly of my land. Guardia is far stronger than you know, Janus. Woe unto those who stir up its wrath. Surely you do not think we were defeated a decade ago?”
“If not defeated, what then? Certainly you have not been waiting idly!”
“Indeed, yes! Waiting, but not idle! As I told Serge before we arrived in my land, the people and warriors of Guardia have been waiting patiently at my command. In those days when Porre first struck there was no time to form our army, for if we had we could have ended this then. But time was short, and the throne was overthrown. We were scattered. What men were under my command I sent back to their homes, for I knew that in some day yet to come their strength would be needed united. And ever since Porre has been watching us with an uneasy eye. Guardia has always been a nation of warriors. For a thousand years we were unconquered: not might nor sorcery could master us. Even you, with your legions of mystics, could not wholly overcome us. Not without reason is our land named what it is, for we are the last remnant of those who live by the old ways and seek to preserve peace without conquest. This is in the people’s hearts and blood, even if they do not know it themselves.”
“But little can they do,” Janus said, “for they have no weapons of worth, nor any armour. I fear that this war of yours will go ill, even if the valour of your people is as great as you say.”
Crono smiled craftily.
“You underestimate me, Janus. Just as I have not been idle, neither have been the blacksmiths of Guardia. For every day and night for fifteen years have the forges of our land toiled ceaselessly in preparation for this day! Hidden from the eyes of Porre we have a store as shall rival any Porre has here. Soon, from every secret smithy, shall such a horde of weapons and armour be gathered as has not been seen in Guardia in half a millennium! No one shall lack either sword or helm.”
Janus, though he tried to hide his surprise, was astounded.
“Now that is more welcome news. And you did not care to speak of it earlier to me?”
Crono shrugged.
“Good tiding unlooked for are all the more joyous.”
Here, now, they came through to the small encampment of people that,
by the colours that flew from the tents, seemed to be from the east-lands. The men there were forging and firing arrows at the trees or testing their blade-skill against one another. But even as Janus had so lately said, they were ill-suited to such things, and few showed any true skill in the using of their weapons, unless it was the hunters and their swift-shot and unerring arrows. As they walked by, those that saw them turned and bowed, hailing him king and lord of Guardia (though at this Crono turned aside, not wishing to accept such titles of rank.) All of a sudden, one of those that stood about turned at their approach, and strode up to meet them.
“A child of the east-lands,” Janus muttered. “If my memory serves me, he was most eager to meet his king when I spoke of your return in his village. Do you know him?”
“No, I have never seen him before. Perhaps a son of one I served with,” Crono replied.
Crono sighed and whispered to Janus, making certain no one else overheard.
“So he is another of these overzealous king’s men? I despise being named something I am not. I am only one man, and was once a simple boy of Truce; how different am I than they? Once I was prideful of my victories, now I tire of them.” He looked towards the approaching one with a slight sigh. Janus clapped him on the back and laughed heartily.
“Enjoy it while you can, my friend. Such things end all too soon.”
The child had now come to before them. He was indeed one of the youngest that Crono saw gathered in the square, though his youthful face seemed to show a certain steadfastness and vigour that was well beyond his years. His long golden hair fell back unrestrained over his shoulders. He was dressed in the same form of clothes that Crono had been fond of in his younger years, and were common among the youth in Guardia: loose fitting pants and shirt, and a light tunic held fast with a simple belt, all in simple shades of grey and brown. Over his back a long weapon, wrapped in travel cloths, was slung.
He halted before Crono and knelt deeply before him.
“Lord Frey, my master, I am at your service. My life and death are at your command.”
Crono shook his head at this sincere display of respect, dismissing such fervent devotion.
“Stand up, child . Whatever may be told of me, I am not your king.”
The boy instantly did as commanded, standing up straight-backed before Crono.
“But you are my king, are you not? You are Lord Frey, hero of and heir to Guardia.”
“Heir yes, but not king. I am a prince, and that only because I must be. If you wish to serve me, do not call me by my knight’s name. I would that you not use it. I am Crono to all that would know me. And you are?”
The boy smiled proudly.
“Sigurd, son of Sigmund the fisherman. I hail from the eastern woods that border on the sea, from the village of Kael.”
Crono now saw him standing, for the first time taking note of him in detail. His face was sharp and his eyes keen, burning with the spirited flame of youth. Their hue was a deep shimmering green, in seeming stark contrast to his drab clothes. And to Crono’s wonder, he seemed both strong and sure for one so young; almost a prince like valiance was in his face.
Crono nodded in reply to Sigurd.
“Yes, I know the area...” he muttered, his words disappearing in thought.
The boy frowned, seeing this sudden shift in mood.
“Is something amiss, my Lord? Have I offended you?”
Crono started out of his thoughts.
“My apologies, not in the least. You simply remind me much of myself when I was young and that brought reminisces to my mind.”
Sigurd appeared surprised by this, a slight pride shining in his eyes at these words.
“That is too kind a thing to say, my lord. I only hope to serve you well, with all my strength as my duty and servitude demands.”
Crono smiled at these words of devotion, though inwardly it saddened him somewhat to see someone so young prepared to face war.
“I am sure you will. But I ask you: are you ready? Can you stand before the terror that is war and not falter? How old are you?”
“Sixteen, my Lord Crono,” Sigurd replied carefully, nearly forgetting Crono’s demand to use his common name.
Crono frowned somewhat with a curious eye, then sighed.
“Sixteen years? And you wish to go into battle? To perhaps die before days of even your childhood are fully spent? Again I ask, do you think yourself ready? Are you not afraid?”
The boy smiled grimly.
“No, I am most certainly not ready,” he paused, motioning his hands about at the gathered people. “But who of us is? And as for fear, such things I should not dread: death comes when it will to any man, and it is unavailing to flee destiny. I do my best to deny such fear mastery of my heart. And it is my duty to serve you, is it not? I may be young, but I can fight. Therefore I must use whatever skills and power I possess in your service. Such is my obligation as your subject.”
Janus, who had been mostly disinterested in the talk, and had taking to murmuring some archaic verse to himself under his breath, glanced up sharply.
“Can you really?” he laughed. “You mean to tell me that a mere child like yourself can even lift a true weapon, let alone use it with anything that might be called akin to skill?”
The boy, however, was not daunted by the menacing words of mockery, and managed to retain an unwavering countenance.
“My Lord, I have often trained with a blade at my father’s teaching, and have on occasion gone to Medina of the Mystics...”
Crono on Sigurd with new interest on hearing that this boy had visited Medina. He himself had gone there once, and had found no pleasant welcome. It was a perilous place for any human, for the Mystics hated those of alien race. To travel there, most especially for one so young, was nearly unheard of. This young Sigurd had much skill. Indeed, as Crono had noted earlier, a sense of uncommon valour seemed to surround him.
“And who is your father, if I may ask again?”
The boy smiled proudly once more.
“A loyal servant of Guardia, who never abandoned hope in your promised return. He is master Sigmund of the village of Kael. Often he has told me the legends of your adventures...”
“Curses,” Crono muttered under his breath. “I did not know that my exploits as a child were common tales.”
“They are most worthy of retelling, as long as some should live that remember them,” Sigurd replied in all earnestness. “So my father says.”
“About your family, then. You have said you live in the East?” Crono asked.
“Yes, all my life. My family are through many generations fisherfolk by the astern seashore, but my father was once in his youth a squire in the service of Guardia, and fought when Porre came upon us. Of him I learned the ways of the sword.”
Crono once again looked at him in surprise.
“Swordcraft? You can wield a sword?”
“Yes indeed,” Sigurd replied proudly, knowing full well how uncommon such a thing was among the peasantry.
“You possess one, then? An heirloom, perhaps?” Crono asked with sudden interest.
But no, Crono thought, it would not be anything so grand. A small notched blade, in all certainty, that had been scavenged during the Fall. A true greatsword such as he himself carried was a rare thing, for they were of surpassing value, and it was seldom that anyone but knights and lords carried them.
“Yes,” Sigurd replied, his eyes showing immense pride. “It is my father’s great treasure, and was given to me by him on my twelfth birthday. He told me to guard it with my life, for it would do the same for me.”
He unslung the wrapped weapon that hung across his back. He deftly undid the bindings, dropping the cloth. The weapon that was revealed was not the tarnished and beaten sword that Crono had expected to see. Its unnotched blade shone purest silver, not the hint of any scar upon the metal, and the crossguard was a work of remarkable craftsmanship. The steel, if steel it was, was woven in skilful curves that seemed alike to the arms of some plant. Not any smith in Guardia, no, the entire world, could have hoped to craft a weapon such as that.
“That,” Janus said, but his voice faltered, and only slowly did he regain mastery of his voice.
“That is of Zeal,” he murmured to Crono, “unless some great smith has been born in these last twelve thousand years that I have not heard of.”
Crono too was shocked, shaken most greatly, yet tried to hide it to the best of his ability.
“Yes, of course,” he replied, taking another glance at the weapon as if thinking that it was but an illusion of memory. But the blade was as real as all others.
“That, Janus, is a Star Sword of Zeal.”
“Precisely!” Janus replied. “But how did he find it? All of those weapons perished with my ancient land!”
Crono shook his head.
“Not all, Janus, not all. And it is not outside possibility that some have been resurrected in these twelve millennia. And yet...”
He turned once more to Sigurd, who was bewildered as to the cause of their sudden astonishment. He turned the blade about in his hands, seeing well that it was this that was the cause of their earnest discussion.
“How did that sword come to you?” asked Crono, his voice still betraying his wonder.
The boy frowned, worry crossing his brow.
“From my father. Where he got it, I do not know. Is something amiss? Is it known to you?”
“Yes, it certainly is. Do you know what it is you hold?” Crono asked, running his fingers along the expertly forged metal.
The boy looked at his weapon, contemplating it for a moment in an attempt to see what was so wondrous about it.
“It is well forged, I can see, but beyond its craftsmanship what is its value? Is it not merely a sword?” he questioned, his eyes betraying his uncertainty.
Crono laughed.
“Ha! Merely a sword? You speak of that as if it were the common weapon of some brigand or captain! That which you hold in your hands is the work of downfallen Zeal, and is beyond the worth of a thousand gems. Let me see it, I beg of you.”
“Of course my Lord...” Sigurd said, amazed.
He handed the hilt to Crono who took it up with the deft skill of a master of weapons. And yet it seemed that he knew the sword somewhat, for it looked to weigh no more than a branch in his grip.
Taking it under careful study he stared long at the blade, examining the intricate workmanship closely. Finally he looked up, a knowing smile on his face, and nodded to Janus.
“It is a Star Sword, Janus,” he said with a nod.
“Impossible,” Janus said awestruck. “That would mean it has lasted twelve thousand years in this world. That would make it the oldest work of men’s hands yet existing, save only the Masamunë itself.”
Crono nodded.
“And a most powerful sword at that,” he said, returning to look at Sigurd.
“My friend,” he said to him, “these letters,” he ran his finger over markings that ran the length of the blade, “do you know what it is they say?”
Sigurd shook his head.
“No, they are some strange script. They are neither Latin nor Greek, nor any other known form. Not even the master scholars in Stoneshield could decipher them.”
“I would not think so. But a few there are in all the world that can yet read this writing, for it is of Zeal. I myself can barely read it, for it is very ancient. This says: Saer il es lamir il Aster, ‘Sword of Heaven’s Light’. Therefore this is indeed a Star Sword, forged by the swordsmiths of Zeal twelve thousand years ago. And this here,” he pointed added to another length of script that was engraved crossways upon the guard, “reads, if I’m not mistaken, its name. Named after a star, as it is said those weapons all were. Meredter, in the tongue of Zeal; that is Rigel to us. One of the brightest of the stars of the night sky. Guard this weapon, Sigurd, guard it with your life even as your father said. For there are none now like this, and it is an equal to my own. Perhaps it is even greater. Its blade is of true-silver and woven with unbreakable spells of ruin to all foes and darkness.”
He returned the sword to Sigurd, who clasped it in his hands with great pride, covering its shining metal with the cloth once again.
“And may it guard you, when the time comes. Do you still wish to face battle?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“So be it,” Crono said, yielding to the boy’s will. “May your devotion be rewarded justly.”
Janus stepped forward, a scowl on his face.
“Crono, you cannot even think to do this. That is a Star Sword! Its worth alone would ransom a kingdom. You are allowing a common child to wield it?”
“Is it a king’s place to rob his subjects?” Crono replied, returning Janus’ eyes with a harsh look of his own.
Janus narrowed his eyes at him, searching Crono’s countenance.
“You’re not telling me everything,” he said, sensing a strange tone in his friend’s words.
“This is not for now, Janus. We will speak of this later,” Crono said resolutely, a harsh edge to his voice.
“That boy is unworthy of such a weapon,” Janus bit back with certain disdain. “It should be gifted to one who can use it as it should! Not without reason were only the greatest captains of Zeal granted those weapons. And here it is to be wielded by a peasant child?”
Sigurd stood watching this argument uncertainly, even he affrighted to see two great captains so ill tempered with each other. Crono looked over at him.
“Are you worthy of it? What say you, Sigurd son of Sigmund? What does your inmost being say to this? Can you wield a Sword of Power, such as was once carried by the swordmasters of the ancient world?”
The boy stood silent for a moment, a disquiet in his eyes. It was not a light question to be asked so, especially not from a hero to a common peasant. But Sigurd had great will for, in defiance of the disdainful look that Janus surveyed him with, he stood tall, his voice sure.
“Yes, I shall. I shall do my utmost to be worthy of such a weapon, and mindful of those who held it before me.”
Crono nodded slightly with a smile, pleased.
“Then that is all that needs be said, Janus,” Crono said.
“But Crono, this is foolishness.” Janus growled, glancing between Sigurd and Crono. Something was amiss about this, his wizard’s instincts told him. But he could not place it any more than one can capture smoke in one’s palm.
Crono glanced him an angry look.
“Did not I use such weapons when I was his age? I learned to be worthy of them. Such magical blades draw their power from the wills of their masters. And surely will is not bounded by age.”
He turned once again to Sigurd.
“The power of this weapon comes from your deepest wishes; wield it with this in mind, and hold to virtue and faith. I must leave now, for I have a war to plan. But come see me before the battle, and then we shall speak more. Perhaps we can see about finding you a scabbard fit for such a weapon. Until then, farewell, and take care.”
He bowed goodbye to Sigurd, who knelt in reply and spun, returning to the crowd from where he had come.
Crono sighed as he watched him leave, shaking his head.
“And whatever was that about!?” Janus demanded angrily.
“About?” Crono taunted, seeing well what Janus wondered about and that his anger was rising.
“He’s a mere boy, and you let him keep that sword? It is of greater value than a king’s hoard! If anyone should claim it, it should be I, last prince of Zeal!”
Crono looked at him, staring undaunted into his black eyes.
“No, Janus, that sword does not belong to you. You were correct when you said that the Star Swords now lie at the bottom of the sea. That is, all but one. In truth, though I did not desire to mention it before the child, it is mine. Do you not remember it? Or has the time been so long to you? It is the very same I took from the Ocean Palace before it was destroyed, and wielded for a short while. And could you not too read the name, Rigel? So there can be no mistaking it. But I lost it many years ago, in the days when Porre overran Guardia...and...” he paused, his words trailing slowly as if wondering his thoughts out loud, “...this is the first I have seen it since then. I must admit, it startled me greatly, to see my old sword in such a way, and in the hands of a child nonetheless.”
“And you trust him with it? I will void my claim on it as it is yours, but if so, take what is rightfully your possession!”
“If it is mine, then I choose to gift it to him, as reward for his loyalty to me and his land. And I wielded it at the same age, did I not? What need have I for it now? Though something gnaws at me strangely, and I wonder...”
“What?” Janus asked curiously.
“Never mind...” Crono muttered. He had not intended to speak his last words for anyone to hear.
Janus shook his head, infuriated.
“Now I am certain you are hiding something from me. What!”
“Do not dwell on it, Janus! These days are for wars, not riddles,” Crono cried at Janus, who frowned, taken aback by Crono’s sudden and unusual vehemence towards him.
And with that Crono walked heavily away from Janus.
“Something is strange,” Janus muttered to Schala and Serge when he found them.
“He’s been strange since Marle died,” Serge said.
“No, this is something else. A mystery of a sword, I think,” Janus replied, half in thought. He slowly recounted the meeting with the child Sigurd.
When he finished Schala too frowned.
“I cannot decipher why this sword seems to be such a great thing to Crono. Nor yet this Sigurd. I wonder at all these happenings. I do not sense foreboding, nor any dark premonition. Serge?”
Serge shook his head.
“I haven’t had any visions since that one a week ago before we went through the woods,” he said.
Schala shook her head.
“Ah, as for that. That one yet worries me.”
“Why?” Serge questioned, finding himself suddenly disquieted.
“Because,” Schala replied, “as I told you then, it seemed to me that whatever you saw was from some time far in our future. I would not have thought it would be upon us yet, unless I was mistaken.”
Serge shivered and looked to the ground. For a moment a shadow of what he had seen crossed his waking eyes. None the clearer, but something whispered. No, his heart told him. It was not Marle. And that chilled his heart.
“It wasn’t her, then,” he said, looking sharply up.
Schala shook her head.
“I thought not,” she muttered. “What is fate conspiring against us now?”
“Against us?” Janus said. “No! It is we, rather, who are weaving our own dooms, if anything.”
He cast his arms about.
“Behold! We are upon the brink of war!” he cried loudly. “I do not think that the death of any of us is unlikely.”
“Accursed war. It always plays havoc with any foresight,” she cursed. “There is too much foreboding. Too much death in the wind.”
“I’m not going to think about it,” Serge said, knowing that no effort he put into searching his thoughts would avail him to learn any more about the future. “If it’s already destined, then it will happen no matter what we do. And if it can be changed...well, we’ll do what we can when the time comes.”
NOTE ON THE STARSWORDS
It is said by Janus that only the greatest of the captains of Zeal held the Starswords. In saying so he was very correct, for the worth of the weapons was high, indeed. They were crafted by the court smith of Zeal (which, in the time of the Fall, was the famed Melchior of legend), and given to the Field Lord: those that commanded ten thousand, that is an army. In the entire host of Zeal there were ten such armies (and so only ten such leaders), and each army held five legions of two thousand, each captained by a Lord. Furthermore each of these was divided into twenty centuries of one hundred men; these were led by a Knight-Captain. Within these were fellowships of twenty soldiers, led by a single Knight. Overall the entire host was commanded only by the King or Queen, and they themselves ever marched and fought on the battlefield, as was the ancient custom from the time of Ter-Meredior. Such was the ordering of the hosts of Zeal in battle, though by the time of the Ruin not more than one army ever departed from Zeal to war, for so great was their power.
Once again I must apologise for the OC; rest assured that this story still focuses near well entirely on Crono and his quest (as seen through the eyes of Serge). This is just a side thing, as one might call it.
Ah, well. I’m double posting another chapter. This one’s shorter than the last, and will remain in a single post.
CHAPTER XII
A SORCERER AND A CHILD
It was bright where he stood. Far too bright for his eyes, so he shielded them with his arm, wondering at where this was that the sun shone so.
He slowly lowered his arm as his eyes took into account the light. Ah, it was a field. A plain of grass, and a small stand of trees was upon a distant crest. As he looked about a wind gently swept across the field, making waves upon the tall grass. It was the same as far as he could see. Surely it was beautiful, but he wondered why he was come to such a place, and from where. He took though, but could not remember where he should be, or even who he was. It was altogether strange.
He glanced up at the sky. But there was something odd in the wind now. It was not as sweet as it had been a moment before, and the blueness of the sky seemed tainted, as though a deep and hidden sickness eternally rotted at it from behind its expanse.
He looked more keenly at the sky. It was certain: the clouds and heavens were somewhat darker than they had been. He returned his eyes to the plain, and saw, to his surprise, that the distant trees were somewhat nearer now, though he could not fathom why this should be. He turned, looking to the south. How it was south, he could not rightly say, but he knew it, as surely as he might know anything else. And, strangely, here it was that he saw the sun; yet it was not a midday sun. It seemed that twilight were falling, for it was sinking towards the trees on the horizon, though with greater speed than should have been.
And then it was that he heard words and cries. They echoed to him from what seemed to be far off valleys and plains out of sight. He could not discern their meaning, however, though he knew them to be calling out to him. Whether it was some other tongue, or some strange means that kept him from understanding, he did not know. The more he attempted to grasp what was being said, the further it slipped from him. But his heart he felt sicken, and he knew by some other sense that the words were of anguish and dark prophecy, and portended a swiftly arising evil.
And so it was for, as the sun descended, failing to behind the trees, a last burning eye of crimson, a wan dusk seemed to shroud the land. The trees withered and died, their trunks turning to cinders and dust that blew away in a chill wind that arose suddenly. The grass too shrivelled and died, the plain becoming a choking field of ash swept with a gasping wind. Barrenness took everything.
And still the sun fell. Only the trees that its light fell upon yet lived, and they sat upon either side of it.
He attempted to cry out, with his voice to stay the sun, and beg it to stay. To warn it that if it should leave, all would be darkness forever and the last of the living things should die. But no words came from his throat, and he watched in horror as the leaves on the trees began to yellow.
Still the sun sank lower. But then he saw a wondrous thing. Even as the sun touched the horizon, and hope failed, a figure appeared. In front of the sun, silhouetted black, it rose up, and the sun halted there, still upon the horizon. In its hand the figure held a sword upraised, as if in final defiance of the darkness. Above his head wheeled two ravens, and he knew them to be the servants of the darkness, croaking in mockery. This was some hero, it dawned upon him. Someone who would fight against the darkness to the end. And for an instant his heart recalled hope.
But now worse befell. Above the sun, seemingly born of the darkness behind, two eyes opened like those of a fearful wraith of night. They burned in menacing hatred of all life they did not rule. And they despised the one who defied the darkness, which was their servant and master. They bent their overwhelming power against the sun, and it shuddered, falling into darkness. The trees died. The figure vanished. And the eyes flamed up in victory whilst great hands of darkness sped from them to envelop all the barren earth in the tyranny of shadows. He heard a last despairing cry, a piercing shriek of final anguish, rise up from the lands, and then all was darkness and silence.
And in the void he heard a laugh. The sickening laugh of evil triumphant.
Serge blinked his blinded eyes as the morning sunlight crept in through the edges of his tent. He sat half up and shook his head to dispel the last phantoms of sleep that clouded his mind. Rising fully he drew in a deep tired breath that hinted of an unrestful sleep. From outside his tent he could hear that nearly the whole camp was already astir. He had slept late, something that he had often done at home, but never yet on this journey. He thought for a moment, in consideration, a stray thought crossing his darkening mind. Was it that he had dreamt again? He could not surely remember, but the thought would not leave him. He closed his eyes, attempting to recapture what it had been, and the thoughts of his mind, as he had awoken. It seemed that a chill wind wrapped tendrils about him as he did so, hinting at a premonition that ran deep, but no more could he discern. He shook his head with a half worry, uncertainty plaguing him.
The flap of the tent was pulled aside and Schala glanced in.
“Finally, Serge, you are awake. If you make this a habit, you’re likely to sleep this war through. And that’s not why I brought you along on this adventure, I’ll have you know.”
He frowned, glancing past her to the outdoors. As he had surmised, it was already somewhat late in the morning.
“What time is it?” he wondered aloud, beginning to feel somewhat ashamed that he had not awoken sooner.
She laughed lightly at his uncertainty.
“Ah, only about midday. I came to see you earlier, but you were still asleep. I thought it best to let you be.”
“Well, thanks...” Serge muttered. In truth he would have preferred to have been awakened.
Schala shook her head.
“Well, as it is, no harm is done. But it would be best to rise now. When you are ready, come and see me. I wish to speak with you.”
Serge nodded and Schala left, closing the tent behind her. Serge stood as much as he might in the small tent, his joints paining him from having slept on the hard ground. The blankets, such as they were, were meant to keep out the cold, not provide comfort in any form or manner.
When he was once more dressed he stepped outside. The camp was more busy than he had thought. Men ran everywhere, tension ran thick through the air, and Serge noted with the hint of a shudder that war was most certainly on the horizon.
As she had requested, he sought out Schala first of all. It was not long before he found her, pacing about with her head bowed in deep thought. As he came up and hailed her she looked up, whatever worry and concern had plagued her passing instantly.
“Morning, Serge,” she said in an undeniably merry tone. “I trust you slept well.”
“I don’t know,” he said uncertainly. “Bad dreams and all that.”
She looked him over curiously.
“Now that could mean two things, I should think. One dark, the other meaningless. For your well-being, I would counsel you to assume the second.”
Serge understood her reasons in saying this and, though not wholly convinced, found himself in agreement. He had been dreaming things of meaning so long, it seemed odd to him to dream something of no consequence.
“So, has Crono been around today?” he asked.
She shook her head emphatically.
“No, nor my brother for that matter. And it is he that worries me more. I know for a certainty that Crono is yet in his tent, but my brother’s wanderings are, shall we say, prone to difficulty. But in regards to Crono, he’s behaving somewhat oddly, from what I could discern last night.”
Serge nodded thoughtfully. He too had noticed his friend’s sudden shift in mood, though he had only done so from a distance.
“Yes, I very much wonder what it is.” Schala thought out loud. “Ah, probably all of...this.” She motioned about her to where people ran this way and that, preparing for the coming war.
“Being responsible for so much, so many, can be trying to the best. Especially for one who has lost his wife.”
Serge nodded solemnly in agreement, having seen how that death had afflicted Crono from the first.
“That was very hard on Crono, losing Marle, just like that,” he said. “I had only just met her but...I could see she was of like spirit to him. She wasn’t easily daunted, not even when she was dying. But I think that that arrow, in a way, killed them both. He hasn’t been the same since.”
“Yes,” Schala agreed, “Only the purpose of restoring Guardia drives him now. All else is forgotten. He speaks of nothing else to us now but of that purpose.”
Schala looked about suddenly, as if some thought had crossed her mind.
“Where is my brother?” she asked sharply, as thought on a premonition, “Crono is in his tent, and we are here. But where is Janus? Suddenly I grew anxious. If I were to guess, I would wager that he is causing some trouble somewhere.”
Serge shrugged; he, certainly, had not seen the wizard yet this day.
“But I will not concern myself with him now. Rather it is about you that I worry,” Schala continued, “I’ve had little enough chance to talk with you since Marle died as we’ve been so busy preparing for this infernal war. How does you mind sit in all of this?”
“My mind?” he asked, “What do you mean by that?”
“Crono’s mood, Marle’s death, and the battles you’ve faced, Serge. They all conspire to weigh heavily upon your spirit, and I daresay that is one thing that you do not need at this time. You have done much since we reached Guardia. I am only making certain that you are not about to turn mad on me.”
Serge smiled at the compassion in her words.
“Now, is this Kid or Schala speaking?”
She smiled.
“A little of both, I believe. It is Kid’s mind, but Schala’s voice, as it is most often for me.”
“Well, I’m fine. But things are happening kind of quickly for my liking.”
Schala nodded in agreement.
“You do your best, I can see, and what can one do, but their best? I have seen this world, felt its ways...”
Understanding of her words trailed off as Serge’s own thoughts took hold of him. Schala seemed so confident in herself, and he wished that he too could be so sure of things. He wasn’t even sure the war they were about to begin was a just one.
But did it matter? If he was not on one side, he was on the other and, of the two, he knew Guardia’s was the better. But it did not quell the lingering doubts that gnawed at his conscience. `true greatness is not in destruction, but in healing...`; those words, spoken to him what now seemed to be ago, returned to him. Yet how to heal the hurts of Guardia without dealing harshly with its enemies? Things had been far more certain to him when he had gone up against the shadow of Lavos...
“Serge?” Schala wondered, pausing from her speaking. Serge started, having forgotten her at his side.
“You are doubting, then? Ah, you are. I can see it in your eyes.”
Serge looked at her, surprised at how swiftly and truly she had guessed his thoughts.
“And you don’t think that my mind harries me in a similar manner?” she said “I wager even Crono is. There is much to be both gained and lost in the coming days. And, whichever way this may end, many people will certainly perish. This is worth contemplating.”
Sorrow crossed her features.
“The sad truth is that I had hoped that such times were at an end, with the destruction of the enemy Lavos. But it seems that mankind is just as flawed as he was, and we can never fully banish evil from our own hearts, only hide it for a while. Our wills are our own enemies, more surely than that ancient one that came from the stars ever was.”
“Now don’t you go becoming a philosopher on me, Kid,” Serge said with a laugh in his voice.
“Sorry,” she answered shortly, “it is only that, to let you know, some part of me still remembers Lavos, clear as a waking thought: the unfathomable hate and sadness that that creature bore. I can still feel it at times as these, hiding like a shadow in my mind. And I wonder: if we are so like that evil, is mankind then destined for such an end as well. For surely he was not always so. What destiny drove him to such darkness? Ah, but don’t worry yourself my friend. Be assured that your side is just, if any can be in this flawed world.”
“But I had that kind of confidence, once,” Serge muttered sullenly, “when I fought FATE, and the dragons; then I didn’t have any doubts about my rightness. I saw my enemy, and there wasn’t any question about what needed to be done. But now, Kid...”
“Ah, dear Serge, my friend, I understand you better than you might know. You’re growing up and learning wisdom, and questioning that which once seemed clear,” she said with a shake of her head. “It is inevitable, and for the best, for in time your doubts will cease and your conviction will return, and you will be stronger than ever before, having wisdom to guide you and temper your power.”
And Schala was, of course, correct. In her words he felt some of his old strength touch at him. Yes, perhaps in time.
Even as he thought this his eyes glanced absently across to the far end of the camp, and paused.
“Hey, Kid,” he asked quickly, “is that your brother over there?”
He motioned to a far away tent where a figure was pacing.
“Is it?” she questioned, unsure. She squinted, frowned, then darkened her stare.
“Yes,” she said with a curse under her breath, “and trouble follows him even as I guessed. Come!”
They came up to a large group of people who were watching the wizard intently. What had so captivated them was this: a duel was beginning.
Serge clasped his hand to his mouth when he saw it. Schala merely scowled.
“Janus,” she said to him as he passed her. “What fool thing is this now? A duel? Who have you tricked into this?”
Janus shook his head.
“It was well accepted,” he replied. “I only laid the challenge. It was for the boy to accept or decline; to be foolishly bold, or a coward.”
“What a choice that was,” she replied angrily, not amused. “You were wondering about him yesterday. Is this the way you question?”
Janus fixed a stern look on her.
“Crono spoke to him alone, and I merely wished to know what passed. He said it was only formalities of a king to a subject, but he is a liar. It cannot be all. I will punish him for his falsehood, and discover what I wish to know.”
And turning a deaf ear to Schala’s outraged cries, he strode proudly to where a circle of people had been made. At the far end stood Sigurd. To the surprise of Schala and Serge, he seemed unafraid; perhaps he did not know his peril.
“You accept then, child? Only a liar then, which is better than a liar and a coward,” Janus taunted. A man ran forward and fearfully placed Janus’ scythe in his hands.
“This weapon does not abide liars. And neither do I. Tell me, I counsel you. For I am a harsh enemy, as any who have faced me will testify.”
“I have answered you already,” Sigurd replied steadily. “No more will I say. I do not wish for a battle, but if it must be, then I will rise to meet it.”
Janus scowled disdainfully, glancing about at the people.
“He feigns at desiring peace!” he laughed. “Or is that the guise your cowardice takes, perhaps?”
Janus laughed to himself, and stepped forward a pace. Sigurd did likewise, drawing his silver blade from a scabbard at his side with a swift flourish so that the silvern blade caught the gleam of sunlight as though it were fire.
All awaited the first stroke, knowing that in no way would the child be able to bear it. Janus stood tall and grim above him, and made his attack. The scythe blade swept the air in a vicious swath, one that would easily have rent an weaponless man in two. But Sigurd was quick, and the dread weapon stopped short of causing harm, stayed by the silver edge of the Star Sword Meredter; the scythe was notched, the sword was not. Janus laughed, loud and grim, and suddenly it was unsure whether this was merely a duel, or if it was that the wizard truly intended to slay the child. His next stroke came swifter, and harder. Yet it too was parried, only now Sigurd’s blade flashed in reply, and the dark shaft of the scythe took the stroke as Janus leaped back in fearful surprise. But it passed barely noticed, and Janus shook his head reprovingly.
“Better than a mouse, I admit.” he said loudly in mock praise. Yet those who listened more discerningly could mark the faint shadow of a tremor in his voice, passing only slowly. “Now I shall not be so light in my blows.”
Ten. Twenty strokes passed. Then thirty. And the people were breath-taken. Sigurd still stood, parrying every movement of Janus’, and returning with skilful strokes of his own. The sound of the weapons echoed clear across the plain, and many more people gathered to see what this thing was.
Forty, and Janus became enraged. He had thought this to be a duel of no consequence, a simple practice for him. Yet here he was, unable to overcome a child. His eyes burned fiercely, yet it was to no avail in cowing Sigurd. Not in twenty years had he known a battle so distressing.
Fifty, and there were no signs that either was to submit. At last Janus could no longer bear to be so shamed.
“Ai entra sai hael...” he cursed with a harsh whisper, and at the next stroke Sigurd’s blade recoiled so violently from the scythe that it was certain that it had been wizardry. It flew far from his hand and landed softly in the grass.
“Coward!” Sigurd gasped, even as Janus lifted him up roughly by the neck, raising him off the ground so that their eyes met level.
“You fool! You never had a chance against my power! I was fighting battles, nay, wars, hundreds of years before your birth!”
In reply, Sigurd only snarled: “Craven! You swore no magic!” He struggled desperately in that vicious grip, attempting to free himself without success. Yet his spirit was not crushed as Janus had hoped, and seemed even more fierce in defeat. This stubbornness angered the wizard all the more, for he resented such impudence to be shown to his face. In anger he hurled Sigurd far across the field with a mighty throw so that he landed hard on the bare earth. Shaking the ringing from his ears, Sigurd struggled wearily to his feat, near all of his strength spent. But in his eyes a resolve welled up, a determination that Janus saw only too well, and filled him with resentment for this young boy who continually defied him.
“And now,” Janus hissed menacingly, “you shall tell me all I wish to know, from least to greatest! For you shall discover that none can keep a secret from me against my will, nor fail to know my wrath if they anger me. And indeed, you have angered my greatly!”
In these words Schala heard some of the darkness that had been Magus return to her brother, and she felt a slight fear rise up in her heart, both for the young child he now looked on with so dark a countenance, and for her dear brother. He could not begin to wander down those paths of darkness a second time.
But Sigurd had already risen again, in bold defiance. But to the amazement of all, though he seemed weary beyond words, in body he seemed uninjured, and in his eyes gleamed a cold fire of something none could mark. But in the very least he seemed undaunted by his dark opponent. Perhaps it would have been otherwise had he known the power and wrath of the one he faced, but even had it been so it may have been that Sigurd would not have quailed. Now he levelled a sharp gaze over to Janus, a challenge clear in his eyes. And Janus answered that challenge in strength. For now he stretched forth a gloved hand and, as he stood there, a figure tall and mighty, it seemed that a pall of darkness fell about all, and his eyes darkened to crimson, and then to the colour of black cinders, the centres as smouldering embers.
“Janus, no!” Schala yelled, but he did not listen even to her voice, and her cry faltered in despair. He began to murmur under his breath. Softly at first: slow and melodious, yet with a dark and foreboding menace. What words or incantations he spoke none could mark, yet Sigurd started in a sudden fright, seeing well the dark look upon Janus’ face, and realizing for the first time the dire peril he was in. He dove for his sword that lay gleaming silver in the grass where it had fallen. Yet for all his swiftness, it was too late. In an instant the voice of Janus rose dramatically, as if the very hills had lifted their voices to the wind. A chill breeze arose, and the spells that he uttered gained in speed as well. They became an echo of thunder that rends the still night air, and a dark cloud arose from a world unseen to envelop Janus in blackness. Then with a movement of his hand, as a fisherman casts forth his nets, the darkness flew from Janus to Sigurd. So even as Sigurd’s grip fastened on the hilt of his sword, a writhing strand of darkness wrapped itself about his arm, ensnaring it in a chill bond.
He grappled with the magical cord, yet his hands passed through it as through smoke, though it held him as firm in thrall as any chain of forged iron. In desperation he raised his sword to his free arm and swung for the accursed strand. Indeed the blade severed the icy grip, and the darkness that had entangled his arm faded from a dark mist to oblivion, freeing him. But ever more streams of night came at him, as a hundred writhing snakes without form or substance, but with power nonetheless. The spells of the dark wizard Magus were far too mighty for him to counter. His sword slipped from his hands to the ground and, though he struggled valiantly against his bonds, they wound themselves all the more tightly about him, constraining his every move.
All this Schala watched in horror, shocked and saddened alike by this sudden and unlooked for display of evil from her brother. She had thought that such things he had banished from his heart forever; this had been nothing more than a naive hope, she saw now.
“Do something, Kid!” Serge yelled, and she started, glancing upon him with a paling countenance. He, too, could see the very real peril Sigurd was in Janus’ clutches.
But she was as uncertain as any, and hesitated for a moment as the words drew her out of her troubled thoughts.
“Do what, praytell? My brother won’t listen to me in this mood.”
“Then stop him!” He looked urgently and saw the constricting bonds that ensnared Sigurd. “Use your powers! You’re stronger than he is, aren’t you?”
Schala winced slightly.
“Yes, certainly, but against my brother?” she murmured, obviously loath to strike her brother in combat.
“Fine, I will!” Serge cried, vexed by Schala’s unusually pensive mood. Though it was likely beyond him, he at least would not sit idle.
“No...” she said slowly, placing a hand on his shoulder and drawing him back from where he had already begun to walk forward. “You’ll only get hurt. I’ll talk to him. Curse you, Janus, and your thoughtless stubbornness for making me do this.”
All this while Janus paced about the spot where he now held his enemy completely in thrall, a look of dark and sweet victory sweeping his face. Now and again, even as the bonds seemed to loosen, he would chant some dark words of power, and the mystical ropes would twine themselves all the tighter.
“Do you submit now, urchin?” He growled at Sigurd.
In pain for lack of breath Sigurd winced, yet in defiance struggled a few words from his magical prison.
“Nay, never. Never shall I while you wrong me so! There is nothing I hide. What would you have me tell you?”
“Liar!” Janus yelled, and struck him across the face with the back of his fist so that fresh blood dripped from Sigurd’s mouth.
Then Janus gripped an iron hand around Sigurd’s neck, and his countenance became exceedingly grim.
“I shall crush the very breath out of you, if you do not loosen your tongue!”
But even at that moment he felt a hand on his shoulder. He swept about striking a terrible fist at what he deemed to be another attacker. But he started in surprise to see his dear sister struggling to rise from the earth, faltering from the heavy stroke he had dealt her. He stepped back a pace, his face sincerely apologetic, for he had not intended, not then or ever, to harm his sister in any way. Schala clutched her jaw in pain, and scowled in wrath.
“Whaddya think you’re doing, Janus!?” she demanded, rising with uncertain footing.
“Schala! Are you all right?” he asked, true concern in his voice, “I...”
“Shut up!” she yelled, heedless of the manner in which she spoke. “I don’t care who ya thought I was. What you’re doin’ here is sick!”
Behind Janus the dark nets dissipated, for he no longer put his thought to them. Sigurd stumbled wearily to the earth, fiercely drawing heavy breaths. But Janus did not so much as look, for to him the well being of his sister was nearer his heart.
“Are you alright?” he asked again, taking her gently by the arm.
She scowled a sideways glance at him, and angrily stepped away.
“Of course I’m okay. You don’t think you could get the better of me, do ya?”
Even so she was in certain pain, and her eyes were plainly in a swoon from the power of his fist.
“Just stop this,” she demanded, her eyes now blazing hotly.
Behind Janus, Sigurd rose weakly.
“It is all right, Princess Zeal. You needn’t put yourself in peril for my sake.”
Janus spun at the sound of his voice, the anger instantly returning to his face.
“She shall never be in peril from me! For you, though, I cannot say the same!”
“Janus, stop!” Schala cried again, locking her hand about his wrist, “Darkness is banished, do you not remember? You have denied it mastery of your heart!”
He swept his hand from her grip.
“No more so than you of yours, kind sister. But if you wish it, then I will halt this; for your sake, but for no other.”
“Princess Zeal!” Sigurd cried out. “This will end as it must. I thank you for your compassion, but will not bow before your brother, though he break me.”
Schala’s eyes looked from brother to child with deepening concern. But on seeing the utmost graveness with which Sigurd had spoken, she bowed low, and retreated.
“It is no longer our battle,” she said to Serge at her side. “He has chosen his fate, and in this matter I will abide by it. But I pray my brother uses caution. I looked into that child’s eyes, and saw something there I could not discern. I wonder, now, how this will end.”
While she said these words, Janus had once again returned his dark eyes to the child.
“We may continue at your will, Lord Magus,” Sigurd said calmly, with a mocking flourish of his hand. Janus could only shake his head in disbelief. He had met blades with the child, enchained him with magic so potent it would have cowed even a great knight. Yet here he was, mocking him, who was prince among sorcerers.
“What would you do, boy?” he taunted in return. “What know you of either magic or lore, or feats of arms? You are no magician, and are at my mercy in spellcraft. As for swordplay, I have seen you fight. It was a contest in which I bested you; had you not held a blade beyond your station, it should have been even swifter. Yet still you defy me? I see: you are both hardy and foolish, and think yourself mightier than you are, like some peasant waif who prances about the woods, thinking himself to be a slayer of dragons. But this is no play; your very life is at my mercy! Do you not see that if I so willed it I could cast such a despair upon your mind that you would gladly tell me all out of sheer hopelessness? But in my compassion I give you now a chance to contemplate your place. I counsel you not to spurn this, for I will give you no mercy hereafter.”
But Sigurd’s anger rose at these words of reproach, and he shouted brave words of wrath in reply:
“Do not insult me so, lord of cowards, master of impotent shades and abominable spirits. I bested you in swordplay, by my own power. You played me false when you swore that you would use no sorcery.”
“Child, I warn you, do not anger me for a second time. It was you who betrayed our faith. Your very weapon is magical, and if not for it you would not have withstood a dozen of my blows. Indeed, it is a weapon so far above you as Zeal was above the kingdoms of the earth; you know nothing of magic!”
This all Janus said harshly, and his sallow face was beginning to darken in anger again. But Sigurd replied:
“Do not take me for an unlearned fool. Magic or not, I even so know much of the histories of the world. Yea, even of Zeal, and of you, mighty braggart! Your pride is your flaw, and will not allow you to submit to a child such as I.”
Then Janus thundered, in dreadful wrath:
“You dare to speak to me so of flaws? Me, Janus Rostines, nes il Zeal es meredet? Nes il diom, es teros faerio! Bow before the lord of sorcerers! Do you know to whom it is you speak? You say you have studied of ancient times, so then you must know that I am no lowly captain, nor any common king, but a prince and lord of the mightiest land that ever was, and ever shall be: I am a child of Zeal the magnificent, Zeal the glorious, Zeal of the thousand names wielding power unmatched, even unto this day!”
“That I know well enough. And thus I knew I never had any hope of besting you, though my power was twice what it is. But honour will not let me stand down like a craven who flees at the first sight of battle and grief. And as sure as the sun sets and moon rises, and spring follows winter, I shall never bow to so haughty a lord as yourself, for you deserving of neither respect nor honour, and are only the king of cowed and fearful subjects.”
“Enough, fool! Stop, or you shall feel the wrath I have only threatened with, and you will taste bitter death itself. Were you not so young, and were you my servant and not the thrall of another, I should have killed you before now for mere insolence!”
“And were you not who you are, I should have turned my back on you before now! You are not my king or sovereign, and I owe you no allegiance. I answer to none but my king. To him I shall indeed submit myself for judgement on this matter, as I do in all. And if any secrets lie between he and I, which they do not, there they shall remain ever unknown to all but us, and I shall not reveal them under any threat of death or pain to you or any other, save at the command of my king!”
“Are you so much a child that you think I will forever brook such insults to my very face?” Janus thundered with a fatal tone, and his face became livid with a dark scowl. “If you will not reveal your mind to me, then this will be your doom, child! I care no longer for secrets. Make ready, Sigurd, your death is at hand!”
And with a flash of his hand he sent forth a bolt of fearfully dark and fatally potent lightning at Sigurd. But then Janus paled in sudden bewilderment, and perhaps even a little fear. For the stroke by which he had meant to strike down Sigurd did naught. Indeed, the bolt had been true as to the skill of its master, and had not wavered in its momentary course. But now Sigurd remained standing, unscathed, the dark stroke having vanished in a flash of searing light.
“What is this? This cannot be so!” Janus cried out, taking a momentary step backward.
And now Sigurd laughed, a clear piercing laugh of one who has taken a foe by a sudden and unlooked for storm.
“Even as I have warned you before!”
And a bright flash rent the air between them and a bolt of lightning, white and pure even as Janus’ had been dark, leapt to Sigurd’s waiting hand with a clap of piercing thunder that echoed in the ears of all.
“So this is what I saw,” Schala whispered to Serge. “He is a sorcerer child. A rare thing, indeed, in these days.”
“You were much mistaken when you thought me but a fool in matters of sorcery. For till now I have but restrained my true power, in hopes that I could sway you to the truth of my words by other means, and knowing that your certainty in your own power would undo you. And so it has, for now see! Our contest of might is not yet ended, for neither has submitted to the other!”
In sudden fear Janus called his scythe to his hand. Wheeling through the air to his waiting grip he prepared to defend himself against one whom he had thought surely defeated long before.
“Hold!” a commanding voice called out from the watchers.“Stay your wrath Janus, you fool. And you too, Sigurd.”
Crono strode out from the midst of the people, a grim smile on his face.
“It seems that once again, my friend Janus, you have underestimated someone to your folly!”
Janus looked at him in rage, yet not wholly removing his gaze from Sigurd. Though a truce had been imposed between them by Crono’s appearance, he did not trust Sigurd to honour it, and was uncertain of what power this child might possess; and his anger still burned heavily against him.
“How long have you watched?”
Crono fixed a stern and admonishing gaze on his friend.
“Since the start,” he said darkly. “I know well who insisted on this duel, and could have warned you not to think so lightly of the child. Have I not looked into his eyes? Am I a fool that I could not see that uncommon might rested therein? And if I were to judge, I should proclaim you bested, friend.”
“Bested? Not half so! I was but making trial of my power. Had I...”
“Yet this child did not even do so much, not till the end. He has what you do not: patience!”
Crono looked at Sigurd.
“And as for these secrets and hidden things you speak of, they are delusions of your dark mind.” He looked over at Sigurd.
“He never told me any of this magician’s power of his.”
Janus glared at Crono.
“Then what, if not this, are you hiding! What did you speak to him about?!”
Crono scowled, but laughed slightly nonetheless.
“Of Guardia, and his home by the sea. Of his family, and his lineage and, moreover, to give him a fitting scabbard for his sword; or did you not notice that the blade was held sheathed to his side? It was not so yesterday, most especially not in one adorned with true-silver. What in this is so wrong? Is this the mighty secret you yearned to know?”
Janus did not answer, but frowned deeply. Crono, he was certain, was speaking the truth. Yet something was uneasy in his mind and, much to his vexation, he could not place it. Some secret was still being kept from him, perhaps. And, as a master of deceptions, he despised this.
He nodded in affirmation of Crono’s answer.
“As you demand. But still, do not expect me to take kindly to this child! From this day forward we shall be as enemies.”
Crono glared back harshly.
“Janus, nothing do I expect of you except to treat my people with their
due respect and not harry them. Need we be divided on the brink of war?”
Janus did not answer, but cast a cold and scornful gaze in the direction of Sigurd. Their feud was not over, their eyes said to each other. It would take some greater thing to end it.
Janus swept his dark cloak about him and strode off from the crowds, the people parting wide to let him pass, fearing the his dark glance that seemed to bear a fatal shimmer.
Crono now looked reproachfully at Sigurd.
“He was not alone in folly, however. You are both too proud. Keep your honour, yes. And most certainly cherish nobility. But too much pride is simply foolishness, and shows but a lack of wisdom, and too much concern for one’s self.”
Sigurd bowed, yet his face burned red from the rebuke.
Crono turned and strode off past Serge and Schala, saying no word, though the faint hint of a mysterious laugh was on his lips, and his face was more joyful than it had been for some time.
As he departed, Serge turned to Schala.
“I didn’t think your brother to be so ruthless,” he said softly and in surprise over what had just passed.
A darkness crossing her eyes, she returned his words sadly.
“Yes, at times he is. Woe to those he calls enemy. But so has he always been, at least since his youth. Lavos is gone, but the darkness that was the Sorcerer has not left my brother’s heart yet. He returns to it when it pleases him, it seems”
“Isn’t there any way he can change that, maybe keep himself from it?”
“How can to hide one’s true nature forever? Is that even possible, Serge? I myself had thought so before today, but I see that it is simply how he is, and it will never depart from him. Lavos is dead, but his mark remains imprinted as a scar upon our world, a lingering wound that may never fully heal. Janus shall never fully abandon his old ways.”
Ai, I am well aware of the folly in writing in this OC. I see so now, but it was difficult for me to discern back when I wrote this. It is not my intent to portray him in any wise more powerful than Janus, for he most cetainly is not. This actually reflects more on Janus’ overconfidence than anything; Janus is the peer of Crono in might, but if Crono had fought, the child would have been down in a moment. Janus was simply far over-sure of his own might, which is his old flaw even in the game (where there, too, a child bested him; it appears to me not through strength, but by his own overconfidence and darkness that turns against him.) Anyway, I think had I written this now I would have been a touch more tactful with this OC. I am more wise in such things after having written a whole story, after all. But I must stress that I never take his character to the point of taking away from the other canon characters, and if anything he is meant more to reflect certain aspects of them, and only ends up playing a role in the story here or there, being left out much of the time. He is a flaw, to be sure, but I hope not too grievous.
No, he’s not bad at all. You did pretty well.
Ah, well, maybe for now. I wonder what the verdict will be by the end of the story, though. Anyway, I suppose it is time for the next chapter. Finally, a major, full-field battle with thousands of soldiers. I particularly like those.
CHAPTER XIII
THE BATTLE AT THE FIELDS OF TRUCE
It was daybreak, and the dew was shining like gems on the long grass of the plain, as the sunlight greeted the earth with a new day. In the eastern sky the wisps of cloud burned in many marvellous hues as the sun rose above the horizon. A matchless beauty, perhaps, as it signalled rebirth, and hope. Yet, on this day, few there were noticed its magnificent splendour, for battle was at hand on the plains.
The previous few days had been fraught with negotiation and parlay between the commanders of Porre and Guardia. All of these had failed, for while Guardia would not yield to anything less than the absolute retreat of all the armies of Porre, neither would the Empire willingly abandon their occupation of the land. And so it was that it had been vehemently decided that they should judge the matter through war, and that battle should take place on the fields of Truce.
From his place where he stood at the front of the left battalion Serge could clearly hear the endless beat of the war drums echoing from behind. It stirred his heart.
Around him near to one thousand men stood ready. Crono had placed no less than an entire army of his people under Schala’s hand, and Serge was to be her herald and lieutenant, and this did not rest easily upon him. For he wasn’t certain that he was prepared for the charge laid upon him. But at the least he wasn’t alone. Schala, his commander in this battle, was at his side. She, at least, appeared to be confident and unafraid. Though this might well have been but an appearance, for she usually seemed so, whatever she truly felt, as is becoming of a good leader.
She was arrayed in robes of deep azure that shimmered as she moved, but fashioned in such a way that allowed her to be fleet and lithe, as was ever her desire. Across her shoulders was draped an elegant cloak of like material that fell down to well below her knees. She was shod now in light leather boots that reached nearly to her knees and, as Serge, she wore no helm. Her golden hair, however, she had dyed with tongues of crimson so that it appeared as if her very hair was on fire as it moved. No open armour did she display, neither shield nor even mail such as those in Guardia were wont to wear. As for weapons she carried her beloved dagger at her left hip, the jasper in the hilt twinkling slightly in the rising sun. On her right was fastened a short sword she had begged from a master blacksmith. Though well forged it was by no means an exceptional weapon. It was steel from tip to pommel, with only the mark of the smith adorning it. The hilt was of wood and leather, as might be expected of such a weapon. Moreover, it was an odd thing for her to bear, for she had not often carried such weighty weapons into battle. Serge glanced at her, slight apprehension of the fast approaching battle still skipping through his heart.
“Nervous, Serge?” she asked with a dim smile.
He nodded somewhat.
“This is my first field battle,” he answered. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
She looked at him with understanding and said:
“And you pray it to not be your death. I know how you feel. I too have never fought such a battle.”
She looked about warily, making sure all but Serge were out of earshot and added:
“I’m nervous and frightened as hell, mate. But without fear there can’t be courage, can there? Just wish these Porre blokes would get on with it.” She looked with a darkening stare to the far fields. “What’s takin them so bloody long?”
The shadow of a smile then crossed her at this sudden shift in mood and speech, as she then unsheathed her dagger and looked keenly at it, its silver blade glinting sharply in the sunlight.
“Check your sword also, Serge. Are they prepared for this?”
And there she was speaking so differently again. He had been in her company for near to a month and a half now, and her occasional disparity in tone and mood still caught him sharply. At one moment she might be speaking as though she were yet Kid, the girl by whose name he still called her. But then, a moment later she was the regal princess Schala. And it was near always the latter, he had soon seen with some sadness. He missed the carefree girl he had known once as his best of friends.
He swept the Masamunë, which lay fastened over his back, into his grip. Like to Kid he wore near to nothing in the way of armour. Still he donned his tarnished coat of mail, but if it came to arrows or swordstrokes it would be of no help to him. And so he must trust to his skill, he knew. Whatever that might amount to.
As his hand fastened tight upon the leather hilt of his sword, he heard the echo of speech in his mind, saying:
“Now here is one who is nervous. Do you fear the battle, my master?”
But of course Masa knew the answer to that question. In the form of the question he knew it to be Masa, the elder and stronger of the two brethren spirits, whose will was the strength of the sword.
“You don’t have anything to worry about, though,” he replied in a low whisper. “Win or lose, live or die, you don’t have anything to fear.”
“I wouldn’t say so,” came the whispered reply of a gentler voice. “Swords can be broken just as human wills. And if the wicked wield us, that can be a terrible thing to endure, I assure you. Remember that the lives you take and the blood you spill this day will be on our account no less than on yours, for it is we who must drink the lifeblood of others on this field. But to this purpose we were born, and so will not argue the design of our creator. And so neither should you, though it be a fate of death that is measured out for you; none can see the full purpose their lives hold. Wield us well, and wisely, and remember your purpose and mortality with a keen mind.”
And lastly the womanly voice of Selinirë said: “But we wish you well this day. Know that we hold your fate as dearly as our own. Many a tear we should shed, if you perish.”
Serge slipped his weapon over his shoulder with a sigh. The wisdom which Mune had given him was not all that comforting.
“Serge,” Schala said slowly. “I begin to wonder what news there is of Porre. They’re taking frightfully long to march here. Perhaps Crono knows something I do not. I recall he sent out scouts near to an hour ago. Go and ask him of their report. As for me, I fear something in this, so I myself am going to scout, and see what I can discover.”
Serge nodded to her will, and took off in a sprint towards the front central lines where Crono stood.
At the last Schala called after him: “And tell him to be wary off Porre and their guiles. They are hardly fools!”
It wasn’t all too far, and he was thankful to be allowed some movement. It cleared his mind.
He found Crono standing at the very front, striding here and there at the head of his troops, seemingly lost deep in his contemplations. At his side stood Janus, leaning on a great reaping scythe, a grim look of excitement in his dark eyes. Here was one who did not seem the least bit concerned over the chances of the coming battle. Indeed he seemed more than a little eager, which was hardly a surprise.
Crono finally saw Serge approaching, and glanced upward with a smile.
“Ah, Serge,” Crono greeted him. “What are you doing here? Is there something that concerns you or Schala?”
“She sent me. She was getting worried and sent me to ask if the scouts have returned yet.”
Crono shook his head, concern crossing his features.
“That was the object of my thoughts just now. No, not of yet, and that worries me. I fear Porre may be attempting some guileful strategy. Perhaps they will try to flank us. Though I don’t know how they possibly could; to manoeuver an entire army so unseen would be a near impossible task.”
Janus strode over, as powerful seeming as Serge had ever seen him be. Arrayed now in full battle armour, he seemed indeed mighty, and Serge saw why so many had mortally feared him once. His long crimson cape billowed out behind him like monstrous wings, and his hair, violet streaked with raven, stirred in the morning breeze. His face was that of one not to be trifled with, rent with the shadows of many scars, and unshaven in many days. In his left hand he gripped his great scythe, and his form recalled the medieval icons of some dark terror. Under his right arm he held clutched an evil looking helm of black, marked with runes in some forgotten script.
“So, to you had fallen the duty of errand boy, has it?” he laughed, his voice sharp as the crisp morning air.
“It appears so” Serge replied, absently.
Janus squinted in the morning light.
“Where is my sister; I cannot see her.”
“She left. To scout on her own,” Serge answered.
Crono sighed.
“Fair enough. By her sorceress skills she’s most certainly a better scout than those I sent out. But it is unwise to leave your men leaderless, even for a short while. You should likely return now, before they begin to miss their commander.”
Serge nodded.
“Good luck Crono, and you too Janus.”
As Serge left them, he heard Janus yell out after him, grim laughter in his voice, crying:
“Luck? I do not need it. I forge my own fate!”
But Serge had no peace as he returned to his position for, at the moment in which he arrived, Schala returned. She approached Serge slowly, yet he could read the utter urgency in her eyes.
“Do not worry the men. Let us talk as though nothing is amiss,” she admonished quietly as she reached him. Her robes were now streaked with mud and grass, and her face bore marks of earth, showing that indeed something grave had happened.
She wiped her brow with her sleeves and looked towards where Crono stood.
“I don’t know how they have done it, but we have near to half the Porre army on our left flank. I would assume a similar battalion is even now on our right.”
“What?” Serge demanded urgently. He must have heard her wrong. “But our scouts would have told us.”
“Our scouts are dead to the man. I found one, though it is better not to speak of it. I hardly returned alive myself. Those magicians they have are a tricky bunch. Somehow they’ve almost managed to close in about us. It appears that they have not a few masters of illusion within their ranks. From the Black Wind, or else Mystics.”
“I’ll go tell Crono!” Serge replied, and started to run off once again. But Schala laid hold of his arm, staying him.
“I will go; of what I saw, I must tell him myself. Stay here, and get prepare to order an about face.”
Serge’s heart chilled. What little confidence he had had now faded away. And what ill fortune with which to begin the day. He watched Schala leave, doubt chilling his heart with ice.
Behind him the soldiers began to murmur, having indeed noticed something amiss.
“Calm!” Serge yelled out, surprising himself at how suddenly and loudly he spoke the words. Schala had only half made it to Crono when a great battle horn sounded to the West. And then, as if appearing from a lifting mist, he saw in the far distance the armies of Porre. He espied the glint of steel, and heard the beat of drums. The magic had lifted, and battle was at the doorstep.
“Turn to face!” he called out, running to the far West of the lines as swiftly as he could. At his command, the army turned. Divisions and battalions rearranged, and fell once more into orderly array. And, glancing both in front and behind, his heart nearly gave way at a sudden thought: here he stood, between one army that would defend him, fighting at his command, and another that would seek his death. Two thousand for, three thousand against. And then Schala was at his side again, and his thoughts calmed for the time.
To the east Schala’s news had dismayed Crono. It was a more clever move than any he had looked for. And now they would at needs fight a battle on two sides; a grim prospect, but it could not now be undone. He spurred his horse to the East, and called out for the men to turn likewise. Even as they had in the West, the armies reformed. Janus too followed.
And now, finally, the last pieces of the battle had been set. Crono placed a helm, set with the figure of a dragon upon his head, and vaulted up upon his horse. Turning it about, he faced his people with a determined gaze. He swept out his sword and flashed it high above his head.
“At long last shall Guardia be reborn!” he cried above the din of the gathered soldiers. All stopped to hear him speak.
“Fifteen years is a great span of time; so long have we suffered the occupation and troops of Porre. Yet now that time is ended, and we rise up in defiance of their fabled might. Let it be they that quake with fear this day. You know for what you fight, and your own wills are kindling enough to your zeal, and so no more need I say.”
He paused somewhat, and to his side came Janus, now riding a horse as well. A great black steed: a perfect match for its master. From a place on the side of the horse hung his scythe, and he had now placed his dark helmet atop his head.
“Once I was your enemy, people of this land of Guardia. Today I am your friend. And now let your foes tremble, for at your side fights none other than Magus, once lord captain of Mystics. Forget your fear, and be bold,” he said, his voice even, though echoing across the plain with his wizard’s power.
Crono nodded.
“Let this day be their day of reckoning! Iustitia nostri signum est!” he cried, rallying the hearts of his people to his.
He turned his horse from the people and faced the distant plain. At the furthest end the armies of Porre were now appearing dimly, even as they had in the West. Crono spurred up his horse, raising his sword once more so that it caught the light of the sun.
“Guardia viva in aeternum!” he cried, brandishing his flashing sword about.
At these words a clamorous great cheer arose from the army, and they clashed their weapons to their shields with such noise that it seemed as if battle was already upon them.
Crono bore his sword before him. Today it would drink blood once again.
In the distance the unbroken line of soldiers, five score long and dozens deep, marched steadily towards the hosts of Guardia to the sound of endlessly beating wardrums. In response the Guardian heralds, at a shout from Crono, raised their great horns to their lips and blew a thunderous challenge that could be heard a hundred leagues distant. All at once the troops of Porre, as if daunted by that noise, stopped and, for an eternal moment, all was still and quiet. It seemed as if even the birds had stilled their songs, in apprehension of the coming storm of battle.
But, as suddenly as the quiet had come upon them, it ended. With a distant clatter the soldiers of Porre moved about, their archers taking their places in perfect time and order at a command from their captains.
“1st army, at my command!” Crono shouted, making certain his men could hear his voice. “Legion of the Crimson Hawk, form up! Shieldman, to the vanguard and take positions!”
With less precision, though no less zeal, than their Porre enemies, the men of Guardia slowly took up their battle positions under the skilful command of Crono. The division of shieldmen took the van, for they bore great shields, and were to provide a defence from the first volley of the enemy arrows. Behind them the Guardian archers readied themselves.
“Archers, at the ready!” Crono cried.
“Archers, at the ready!” The commanders of the bowmen repeated, in direct echo to Crono’s words.
And now the battle began in force.
From far afield a thousand arrows lanced out. Darting with deadly speed from the ranks of Porre they rained down upon the gathered host of Guardia. Not a few bold warriors perished beneath those darts. Yet for the most part the shields of Guardia held fast and true, and the armies remained unmoved. And now Crono looked to his own stroke. Left and right he glanced, and nodded to his own leaders, with a look commanding them to their duties. He heard their cries echo down the ranks, calling all bowmen to once again make themselves ready.
“Archers! Men of the Serpent’s Head, prepare yourselves. Those of the Waning Moon, draw your bows and take your aim. Hold steady. Do not falter. Loose arrows!”
A full two hundred men, bearing upon their banners and shields either the device of a fang bared snake, or of a crescent moon shining silver on a sable field, drew up their tall yew bows. The volley of arrows fled from the Guardian lines, coming down with upon the Porre army. These, however, had scarcely any heavy armour, and the shields they bore were small, so the stroke that was dealt them was a hard blow. From his mount Crono could see the foemen falling in scores before this dreadful rain. It lasted for but a moment, but left the ranks of Porre with a heavy toll.
The first stroke for Guardia, Crono thought with a smile. And a good one, indeed. May Porre long feel the blood of that strike, and know now the fury of Guardia avenged!
Crono saw that the enemy captains felt another such exchange would be too dire, for from his view atop his mount he could well see the hasty orders being given, and descried the sound of rallying trumpets. And his thoughts were proven true a moment later. With a beating of war drums the Porre legions took once more to the advance, albeit with more haste and less order. Crono faced down his approaching enemy, the resolve burning like a flame in his eyes, his keen desire for vengeance nearly mastering him. Now would Porre be too near for bowshot; now would the skirmish upon the field begin.
“Horseman and knights! Those of the company of the Sable Dragon, to my side!” he called, his voice unfaltering.
From the flanks riders that he had held ready reigned in their steeds to his side. No more than three score they numbered, and yet each heavily armed with swords and spears, and armour unmatched by any among Porre. Here they were worth ten on the ground, perhaps more. Upon their shields was emblazoned the truest emblem of their land, a black dragon with pinioned wings outstretched upon a field of crimson red. Among them a single banner flew high and proud, it too bearing a like symbol. For these, the knights, were of the highest order of warriors in the land; the sign of the country was theirs to bear.
“Today we fight together again. For the glory and freedom of Guardia!” Sir Hadrian said reigning in beside Crono with the speed of a skilled horseman. His armour, dull steel, clattered as he readied himself. Upon his head sat a mighty helm, its visor open. He appeared as a true knight of the old order. Brushing aside a lock of silver hair, he raised his hand in farewell.
“To you, I wish luck. May fate be on your side, my Lord.”
With these parting words he shut his visor, and drew his great sword from its scabbard.
Crono nodded to him in affirmation.
“The same to you, old friend. May we drink to victory together tonight!”
Crono returned his gaze forward, seeing all his knights now ready. At his left Janus swept out his great scythe, holding the dread weapon in his iron grip. Crono thrust his sword forward through the air.
“Forward, without fear!” he cried, the age old warcry of the knights of Guardia.
With a thunderous roar the horsemen urged their steeds on. Behind, running with as swift a pace as they could gather, the hosts of Guardia followed.
And so began the battle known ever after as the Battle Upon the Plains.
Crono upon his horse tore into the midst of the enemy, sweeping apart their lines as a man running between tall grass. And even so came Janus, but holding firm his great scythe he came upon the armies as a reaper, and his swath was swift and fell, even as at the harvest the ripe wheat falls to the sickle. It was an onslaught more terrible than any those of Porre had looked for, having not accounted in a mere thirty horseman such a fury. But Crono could not be restrained in his wrath, and he went among the armies, high upon his steed, sweeping his blade where he would. And seldom it was that his blade failed to find blood.
But the generals were quick to muster their armies together again, and even as the lines of footmen met, and the battle began fully, they had regained their wits. The tide turned against Guardia even as it began, and Crono saw then that it would be no light thing to win the day. He reigned his horse about and saw Janus leaping from his steed, as a black winged bird of the night coming down as a terror upon his foes. His scythe swept a deadly swath, and men fled.
Crono brandished his own blade skilfully, parrying all strokes set against him, whether spear or sword. But his horse was not so fortunate as he, and the spearmen of Porre set upon it with their long lances.
Beneath Crono it stumbled and fell, dying to their pikes. Crono rolled to the ground, and rose faster than he had fallen, his sword ready and gleaming. Those that stood about him were stricken with a terrible fear, for a deadly light burned in his eyes. With a great thrust he drove his sword through a tall troll wielding a mighty scimitar, the black blood withering the ground where it fell. And so his long awaited battle for vengeance was upon him, as his foemen fell down before him in scores.
But longer it took the West to engage in their own combat. While Crono and Janus took to fighting their foes, Schala and Serge still faced West, awaiting the arrival of Porre, who now appeared as an unbroken line of men in the field across from them. From far to the East they could hear the battle joined, and espied the flash of weapons; they prayed for the safety of their friends, and for all of Guardia. But soon they turned their thoughts to their own defence.
“Take heed for their archers!” Schala yelled as she paced at before the hosts, calling all ears to her voice. “Shields at the ready!”
The front ranks of Porre stopped, allowing for their archers to make their stroke.
“Arrows!” Serge called out, seeing the black cloud of darts rise up in the sky like a flock of startled birds.
The shields were put forward, and the arrows rained down. From behind his own shield Serge could hear the sharp strikes of a hundred arrows about him, and shuddered as one with a black shaft struck deep into the earth at his side. But it only lasted for a short moment and, dropping his shield to the ground, he saw that for the most part his men were unharmed.
“Draw weapons!” he cried out, feeling strange as he did so. To be giving orders, most especially to so many, was a thing new to him. And the knowledge that those commands would be followed to the death gave him a mingled feeling of power and disquiet. What if he chose ill?
But he had little time to muse on such things. Behind him swords were drawn, spears were readied, and axes gripped firm.
Shining like a field of steel the swords of Porre were drawn in reply.
“Lord commander?” a captain addressed Serge, coming up to beside him. “The men are ready and await your command.”
He looked over to Schala. She drew her sword and nodded that the order should be given.
“Advance!” he called out, and he found himself hoping that he had cried loudly enough that his voice would carry to everyone.
He took a few heavy but ragged breaths. A fear beset him, and he wondered if Schala felt the same. Those not a hundred paces before him would be seeking his death, and doing their utmost to end his life. If he did not do well he would suffer through pain and perhaps death. This was no friendly contest of arms, nor even single combat. Here his death might come from any side, so that he might not even see the stroke or man that would kill him. He shook his head and quelled it, calling to him all his courage.
Dissembling all emotion he ran. Behind the men followed him and Schala. Followed them to the death, if that was their fate.
The sea of enemies struck Serge as if they were a great wave, and in an instant he was surrounded in an ocean of foes. Around him men went to their separate battles to the death. A soldier spied him and rushed to meet him, brandishing a long sabre. But Serge, who had seen many more battles this man he now faced, was more than an equal for his enemy. In two swift strokes the man fell, the Masamunë striking him his death blow. Serge took no joy in it however as he looked upon the edges of his sword, stained with the lifeblood of the man he had just killed. He took pause for a moment, even there in the middle of the battle. He felt sickened, and gasped shortly. What wreck of a world was this, wherein men fought so? Here was a man, as good as any other no doubt, and he had just slain him. Yet there are times when war and death are unavoidable, even necessary, and one must look beyond the sickening horror of the day’s deeds to what ends will be accomplished thereby. When one must put aside all thoughts and cares for one’s own safety, and for any pains that the heart may feel over deeds dark, though necessary. Justified only through the knowledge that these this evil is done neither through will nor joy but in need, and for the sake of others. And it was such a time in which Serge found himself. Fight now and live to muse on the righteousness of your deeds later, his heart cried out to him. He shut fast his eyes for an instant, summoning all his will and powers...
Around Serge the terrifying sounds of battle raged, like to a storm itself: the shrill clash of a thousand weapons striking, the sharp whistle of arrows piercing the air, the battle cries of the victorious and the death screams of the mortally stricken. It was more terrible than Serge would have ever thought it to be, and a fear began to again gnaw at his heart. Yet he quelled it with a glance beside him, for at his side Schala fought with great ferocity. Indeed, she appeared now almost akin to a demon, so terrible was she in the fury of battle. By her ancient powers of magic she was wreathed in blankets of scorching flame that burned about her as a fiery cloak, and streamed back from every movement she made. In her usually kind and gentle face burned such a fire so that even Serge could not meet her eyes but for an instant, for they were kindled to crimson, and flashed with power, being seemingly lit by an inner flame. None could withstand her blade, for it danced with a deadly fire and, indeed, no few ran from her onslaught out of sheer terror of her wrath. Storms of flame were there at her command, and they sprang from her hands in terrible hurricanes and blazed about her in pillars of scorching heat that withered the grass at her feet. Indeed, it seemed as if the ancient Norse gods were once more arisen, and Surtur was come with his flaming sword to destroy all the world in fire.
Next to her stood Serge, now battling with his utmost strength. At his command were powers of unbridled and undimmed light, as bright and pure as the very sunlight that shone from the sky. His eyes burned as two stars, and the Masamunë flashed golden in his grip, a whirling blaze as awesome as a wheel of holy fire. Together, for a time, they were as a fortress for the people of Guardia, and ever when the fray appeared most hopeless they fell back around the pair, and their courage was renewed seeing their heros’ valour and power. But despite their might, they could not face more than a few foes at a time, for such were the limits of their powers, and oft they were almost slain, being overwhelmed in the onslaught. Yet it was not their fate to die yet, and ever they escaped, though not without many wounds.
The fortunes on the eastern flank were not as good, however.
Here Crono and Janus battled side by side, and they too wielded great power. Raging storms swept the battlefield, and ever lighting darted to and from Crono, for it came and went at his bidding. No less in might Janus beside him mastered the shadows and darkness, and it seemed to their foes that the sun had been eclipsed, and night come. Yet they were challenged by mighty foes, for here had Porre sent their own magicians. Few of these were human, most being mystic mercenaries bought whose skills had been treacherously bough with the gold of the Empire: tall half-humans and cunning swart elves whose eyes glinted brightly as they put forth their spells. These were mighty indeed, and the battle between the opposing magicians raged, ravaging the field in-between so that decimated earth smouldered black and scorched, though neither side could overcome the other enough to gain victory. Long, too, those battles were, and Crono fought on undaunted, not fearing either death or pain; he lived now only to battle for Guardia, and knew that his end would come soon, and welcomed it. Therefore he fought with a fury that struck fear into the hearts of his enemies, being wrathful and knowing that he must perish, or else live bereft of joy.
But soon the fortunes in the West also turned to ill, for Serge and Schala grew weary at last and the enemy, seeing the flames of her wrath dying, pushed forward with desperate fury.
In the midst, Serge was left to his own, for the foe came between him and Schala.
He turned about frantically, fearing at any moment that some blade would cruelly end his life. Where was she?
“Master, turn about!” Masa cried out suddenly in his mind.
Serge turned, finding an enemy almost upon him. The soldier struck viciously at Serge with a long bladed greatsword. Sparks flew as the Masamunë smote against it, the sound echoing clear and terrible in Serge’s ears. His arms ached with the strength of the blow, but he turned his weapon about, thrusting it towards the soldier in a quick strike. But the man he faced was far better at war craft than the others Serge had fought. A cold gleam seemed to burn in his eyes, and he was not fully human, perhaps. Nearly too late did Serge understand the dreadful meaning of this: the one he faced was a sorcerer. The ground at his feet buckled and lurched as the magician whispered some fell incantation, and Serge nearly faltered, stumbling on the cracked earth. Seeing the sudden weakness of his foe, his opponent was upon him in a moment, the shining blade sweeping in a deadly arc. Serge spun about, rolling to the earth to avoid the death blow. Indeed, he narrowly missed that fate, the sharp edge merely grazing his arm streaking it red, and burning it with a sharp lancing pain. But now Serge was in grave danger for, in evading the deadly blade, he had fallen to the ground, with his enemy still standing tall over him. The soldier laughed grimly, foretasting certain victory. The sword swept down for Serge. But Serge was not fully overcome yet, and he brandished the Masamunë over him; the shaft took the blow, saving him once more from death. The soldier drove the blade ever downward. In foolish desperation, for it would have been better for him to keep hold of his blade, Serge threw the Masamunë away from him with great effort, for a sharp moment causing the sword to sweep harmlessly to the side and into the ground. With all the agility and speed his weary body could muster he twisted and sprang up before his enemy. But his peril was now great indeed, for Serge was without a weapon: the Masamunë lay on the ground, far out of reach, and he saw what a fool he had been to let it leave his hands so lightly. Even now he would have leaped for it, folly though it might have been. But it seemed that his limbs had slowed, and he looked in fear to the magician who softly whispered accursed words of binding upon Serge. Before he could try at a counterspell, the sword was swept for his throat. It was too quick for him to do aught in his defence, even with magic, and he was sure that it was his death come upon him. So this was his fate, then. The end of all his adventures would be to die slaughtered here on a bloody field a thousand miles from his home.
A shrill clash met his ears, and he started as he realized he had not died. The blade of his enemy had stopped a hair’s breadth from his neck, stayed by Schala’s dagger. Where she had come from he did not know. He had lost sight of her long before, but never had he been so glad for her company.
The warrior-magician, too, was surprised, but to him it was not hope but dismay. He had not seen her approach, and was suddenly faced by another warrior, whose crimson eyes burned in red wrath more fearsome than his own. His mind stumbled for a mere second, unsure and daunted. It was his death. Schala laid hold of his blade with her free hand and with a sharp cry swept her dagger to his throat. He fell with a faltering cry, and she turned to Serge with a grim smile in her face. Some dark joy burned in her eyes as she surveyed the field, and he wondered at this.
“Serge, at your back!” she called on a sudden, her eyes darting behind him.
He had been so entranced by his near escape from death that he had lost his sense of battle. With her cry his mind leapt to readiness. An enemy infantryman, bearing a long thin sabre, made a stroke at him. Serge leaped aside, more swiftly than the silver blade that cut through the air. With a sharp flurry Schala’s dagger lanced through the air and struck the man down.
“Twice now!” she yelled at him warningly and, catching it up from the ground, tossed him the Masamunë.
And so the battle continued to rage, for good and ill to both sides, the tides turning this way and that as is the wont of war. Oft was victory in doubt, and no more so than at the eastern flank. Here still Janus and Crono attempted to keep the enemy war wizards at bay. They had succeeded, for the most part, and yet they were but two and the enemy was many. Soon they were overwhelmed, and found themselves alone, all their guard lying slain about them. And in the fury lost sight of each other.
Then Janus flung down his shield, and drew his sickle. And men fled from the twofold fear of his sickle and scythe, which he wielded one in each hand. A grim image of death incarnate, but perhaps even more terrifying for he was no myth to freeze the heart on dark nights, but a manifest terror that walked abroad in the daylight; a sorcerer prince of old the likes of which the world had long since forgotten, he came with all the might of the ancient world out of times past. And men ran from his onslaught rather than face him, crying that the King of Death had been set loose upon them, or that the power of Zeal was reborn. Few there were that would openly essay to match arms with him, and those that did were for the most part worthy magicians in their own right. But what power of latter days can compare to that which was Zeal the Magnificent? That might lived now only its two children, Janus and Schala.
And so it was that not any man alone would dare stand before that one who once was chief among wizards, who of old had been called Magus, the Sorcerer, and Janibas, the Necromancer of the Mystics. Though wounded many times, he was ever victorious against all that stood against him, whether soldier or warrior magician. But, seeing that any one of them alone was hopeless to overcome his power, they drew together, and thronged about him so that he was hard set to, and he grew weary. His blades were now notched and did not gleam silver but red. For they dripped in the mingled blood of countless foes. All the more did he struggle, seeing well the peril he was in. And in his desperate fury he grew the more fell to look upon. His eyes gleamed as two dark stars that had burned in the ancient skies, or perhaps as twin jewels of jet. And the brandishing of his blades was so swift that it was after said that they were unseen to the eyes, save only in the flash of light when they caught the sunlight. And that was likened to the flickering of a star.
“My blade grows weary,” he yelled aloud in a daunting voice, “It seeks the blood of those cravens that flock about me, those who fear me even though I stand alone!”
It shook the hearts of his foes, but even so it was a hopeless cry. He was outmatched in numbers if not in skill.
“Ah, but not alone!” a voice cried, coming to his side. Cutting his way through the hosts Crono had once again won his way to the side of his comrade. And now they stood together in last desperate defence, back to back and daring any and all that sought to slay them. About them a lambent lightning played, amidst brooding darkness, and with eyes aflame they seemed like to two ancient gods, arisen from myth. Even as great Frey, the king’s namesake, and cunning, dark Loki, battling by some strange fate as friends. But though they were mighty indeed, and none on earth more fell and grim than Crono, the Great Hero, in his fury, gods they were not.
They were but two mortals in a perilous world, and it was in hopeless fury that they slew, with a seeming fey mood upon both their souls. The enemy closed in about them, hemming them in, but still they were undaunted for, though death looked upon them smiling, they feared it not. Indeed, Crono desired nothing more than to end in such a glorious way. Then Crono lifted high his sword so that it gleamed brightly, and Janus brandished his scythe before him, and they prepared to die with glory, with their last strength upholding the last hopes of Guardia.
“A strange doom upon us, indeed,” Janus laughed. “That those that have defeated demons should die to the hands of mere men.”
“Yet no less noble, whether by demon’s flame or man’s arrow,” Crono replied. “And let us make this a long remembered end at the least!”
Yet, at the last, they were saved by fate. For even as the enemy rushed upon them with victory flashing in their eyes, and the twain raised their weapons in reply, they heard a cry echo loud from behind the backs of their foes, rising high above the sound of battle.
Seeing the distress of his lords, Sigurd had gathered what few strong and undaunted men he could find around him, and now came to their relief. The wizards of Porre had been too eager for the fall of their mighty enemies, and had ceased vigilance upon all other sides. Now Sigurd came upon their rearguard with a great fury, and in the confusion that he wreaked not a few mighty magicians fell to his blade, for none now fought harder than he. His flaxen hair flashed golden in the sunlight and in his face was revealed a great valour, and all that saw him in that hour thought him to be a mighty and skilled warrior indeed; none saw a child of but sixteen. Then he yelled out to Janus over the din of the battle:
“I hope I did not arrive over late my lord!”
And Janus smiled, now finally seeing the worth revealed in Sigurd. Then all the ills that stood between them were cast aside, and Janus shouted to him, thankful for this unlooked for aid, crying:
“No, my young friend. I see now at last that you are indeed worthy of that blade you wield. You are mighty, I deem, beyond what I had accounted you. And now let us battle together as brothers, for the day is not yet won.”
Then Crono and Janus ran up and joined him, and side by side the three drove forward with the small company, their strength and hope renewed by Sigurd’s courage. The fear inspired by this sudden and unlooked for onslaught sowed discord in their foes, and they broke before them. Leading the armies of Guardia Janus hewed down foes as a reaper at harvest, and both the blades of Zeal flashed together with renewed hope. And so it was that the armies of Porre were mastered by the timely stroke of a mere child, and much were the people of Guardia avenged in that hour. Then those of Porre that remained living on the plain fled the massacre of the battlefields for the woods, their spirits and hopes defeated for the time, and the people of Guardia stood victorious as the sun set with red fire on a day of battle and death.
See? It is things like this that make me question that OC. If truth be told, though, it was not truly his doing, but rather made by chance and the lack of vigalence showed by his foes. He may command magic, but he is no stronger than any one of those Black Wind sorcerers such as Serge faced. It was, as I say, a timely stroke, rather than a valiant one. And I do not even care much for the character, as it is; I think, personally, I like Schala in all of this best of all, looking back. But anyway, if there are problems with this character, it is the fault of my inexperience in writing. As I have said, I would treat such a matter far more tactfully if I were to begin writing it now. But I hope most of the rest of the chapter offset it, at least.
CHAPTER XIV
AFTER-TREMORS OF BATTLE
The battle was now over, and twilight was fast approaching. From where Serge sat under an oak tree on the outskirts of the war camp he could see well the battlefield. It sickened him to see the carnage that was laid bare before him. Everywhere lay the bodies of the dead, broken and ruined from a manifold array of weapons. The darkening crimson blood of both friends and enemies lay mingled together in the field, a terrible sight in the final rays of the setting sun. Many hundreds lay dead there, their fleeting lives having ended in such harsh anguish as the darkness of death had closed in about their dimming sight.
‘Curse this!’ Serge thought to himself, wondering if the freedom of Guardia was truly worth this. Can one place value on either freedom or life, or seek to compare them?
And now he wished only to be back in the peace of his village, where the ordering of the seasons and events was far simpler than the choices brought about by wars and the destinies of ancient kingdoms.
“Well, now, Serge! Don’t look so gloomy. You’ll depress everyone.”
This was Schala, speaking in an unusually light tongue, who had walked up behind while he had been clouded in thought. She sat down on the earth at his side, following his morose gaze out to the field. Serge shook his head and closed his eyes from the sight, though the memory of it would not depart. And his arm still stung him bitterly; the wounds had been healed some by Schala’s sorcery, yet still they burned, not willing to allow his thoughts a moment of peace apart from the memory of battle.
He sighed greatly at this fate of his, touching tenderly at the wound, then shying away from it when he found it only caused him greater pain.
“We won. I know we won. But all the same, I don’t feel it,” he said at last with an ever heavier heart.
Schala, in reply, looked compassionately upon him and said:
“That, I would think, is a common feeling, even for the oldest of warriors. It is not fully a cause of your conscience, however; it is your own strength that betrays your heart. It saps the will to be so enflamed with fury as your were during the battle and now, in the aftermath, the peace is deafening in your heart. Next to the power and fury that it felt but hours ago, it feels hollow and full of sorrow. I should not think that it has ever been any different for warriors since the dawn of time. But now you begin again to question the justice in war, eh?”
Serge nodded silently.
“What justice is there in the world?” she said. “Need we expect it in war? Humanity is both twice blessed and thrice cursed. We can feel love and joy, and put our mind to such beauty that even God must be well pleased. But so too do we war, slay, and do evil; what tears must God weep for this. And most bitter is that we cannot see the end of what we do; we march to war with hope and reason, and thus say it is not evil. But how damning this must seem to the eyes of heaven, for we are fools treading paths dark before our very eyes. We cannot see the future, and hope that the war we embark upon is destiny and justice. But in the end it is the lot of man to hate, and to succumb to greed, and fall prey to our own curse of sin. So have things always been.”
Her words trailed and she stood, casting her mellow eyes on the terrible field.
“...someday we’ll look back on this day with bitter reminiscence and think about these things, Serge, without worry or care, and perhaps understand them with more clear eyes, seeing beginning, middle, and end, rather than the start only. But for now we must follow where our hearts lead us, and trust the counsel of our minds, though it is likely to fail us. Is that not the best we can do?”
“Yes, I know, I know,” he muttered sullenly.
“Do not think so much on the dead, Serge! They are beyond the thoughts or cares of this world. Leave them their peace, so that you may have yours.” She paused, then, and continued: “I am famished, and have not eaten since early morning. I must eat. Are you coming as well?”
He shook his head, and he watched her wander off to the rest of the camp alone. He wondered greatly about how she could be so unconcerned about all this. She was Schala, though, and maybe that was answer enough. Maybe those born of Zeal were hardier to the uncertainties of the heart and mind as well as to pain.
He, too, was hungry, but too sick at heart to eat. He looked at his hands. They bore no blood now: that he had washed off in the grim rally at the end of the battle. But they seemed stained to him even so. How many had he killed by them? A dozen, maybe? Perhaps two dozen? He could not rightly remember now, but their blood was on his hands regardless. Had he been right to take their lives? Certainly, yes, for would they have not done the same to many another without qualm? Ah, but there was the point of the matter. They were, even as he, not heartless. Driven to war through the desire for glory, or through greed, or even hope for honour and valour, they would near certainly have felt even as he did now. Sitting in some place with a doubting heart. Yet it was his hand that had denied them all such chances. Denied them their very lives. Was he some god to decide by his power who should live and die, and order the goings of the days of men? Certainly not; he had not chosen those who should die. It had been their fate to die by his hand, and so it had been God who had judged their deaths apt at that time. He, Serge, was then a pawn to the avenging sword of Almighty God. Was this, then, the purpose in his existence? To be the executer of the judgement of God? But was he himself not as deserving of such harsh justice as those dead on the far plain?
Serge shook his head in a feeble attempt to dispel such thoughts.
To continue to wonder and muse on such thoughts would surely drive him mad. He would simply have to trust blindly that fate was taking him down the correct course and that his deeds were fulfilling the grand plan that was laid out unseen.
He stood weakly, for the day had taken its toll heavily on his limbs, and they were weary. His slight wounds still burned as well. He looked at his arm, where the blade had cut him. A scar would linger, without a doubt.
He looked out to the red setting sun in the West. Somewhere, beneath its dimming rays, a thousand leagues away, Leena too would be now watching it set, but without these worries of war. He missed her gentle company greatly now in the midst of this harsh and perilous land. Ever he wished to be home, a desire that grew more potent the longer he was away. He was not born to be a steadfast warrior, like Crono or Janus. And neither was he wise in sage counsel as was Schala. In his heart he desired above all now to return to his peaceful home, by the sea.
But that was the heart of this matter, was it not? He was fighting so that his comrade, and the people of this vast land, might regain their peace and home. He could not simply abandon them to be wandering outlaws and people living in mortal fear, not while his strength could aid in victory. Yet ever to Leena was the greatest part of his heart given. To her would he joyfully return when at last his part had ended.
He wearily began walking, somewhat surprised that he did not falter to the ground. The day had been the most trying in months, and his legs cursed him bitterly for it.
He wandered to the encampment of tents, surrounded by a meagre palisade wall. The gate guard knew him by sight, and did not challenge him, so he freely went inside, glancing left and right at the tents. Most were empty now, and the people milled about, speaking in an odd meld of joy and sorrow about the battle. Those not there he could see wandering the battlefield, either seeking out loved ones lost to death, or stripping enemy warriors of their treasures and weapons. Tears would not be absent tonight, he knew.
He brushed aside the door to his tent and threw himself down on the mats that lay stretched out. They afforded him little comfort. Yet he felt slightly better inside, shielded in isolation from the outside world, where he did not watch the people. People very like to those he had so lately slain.
He slipped his fingers along the ever keen edges of the Masamunë, the pale-gold sheen of which shone only dimly, as if lit by a faraway candle.
“Masa and Mune,” he muttered in a low voice, “children of a sword of death, how can you stand this?”
“By the understanding of our destiny, master,” the stern voice of Masa responded.
“Now then, are you alright?” Mune asked, some slight concern in his childlike voice.
“Me? Fine,” Serge said, his words faltering uncertainly.
“Master, do not worry yourself so much over this day. How else should it have gone? Would you rather that you had died in the place of your enemies? Again I say, banish your concern.”
Serge shook his head.
“I can’t help it, though. I killed lots of men today. I took their lives, and destroyed whatever hopes and dreams they might have had. Banished their spirits to Zurvan, wherever that might be.”
“You did it so that brighter hopes and the light could endure,” Selinirë said in sage reply. “You did it not for your own glory, but to counter the domineering power of Porre. For life is choices, and those choices determine the future. True, you killed today. And you will kill again, so much I can foresee. Such is the life that has been set before you, child. Have compassion for your foes, but do not mourn them so much.”
“But this isn’t my dream; I don’t want this! Am I a warrior?”
“Neither was it the dream of Melchior when he forged us. But what in this vast world is incorrupt? All bonds between living things are long since shattered and near irreconcilable. Between God and Man and beast there are walls that have, through ill choices, been raised. They are the consequences of the pride of Man, and Man’s desire to forge their own destinies. The very dreams of your race are clouded with evil. But in them find solace. Wield us with confidence, and trust Schala and her wisdom. I tell you she and her brother are the last of the old world which had a deeper understanding of these things. Mighty were the children of Zeal, in all parts of soul, body, and mind. The wisdom of Schala sees far, further than you can comprehend; though she veils it, and appears not older than a maiden, she is mightier than aught others who walk the earth in these days, unless it is her brother.”
Serge nodded, yet his doubts not allayed in the least. He dropped his head to the pillow, drowsiness sweeping over his mind.
“Serge?” A voice called out to him, startling him out of the sleep he had begun to fall into. He rose wearily, not a little upset over being denied sleep so, even as it had begun.
“Yeah, what is it?”
“Crono has called a meeting of the captains...” the voice of Schala replied, “...in the commander’s tent.
Curses, he had wanted to and needed to sleep. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he stumbled out of the tent, his head yet in a swoon over having being roused so suddenly out of his rest.
Schala was awaiting him, looking scarce less tired than he himself.
“Truly sorry, Serge. Crono insists on it. You alright?”
“Tired...” Serge said, pacing out into the cold air of the twilight. It cleared his head somewhat, and some of his weariness left him.
“Likewise,” Schala said, then sighed. “But friendship and duty call. Come!”
She wandered off towards the large tent that served as the command post, Serge in her trail.
Inside were gathered most of the captains, seated at a great oak table. Crono himself, Janus, and two scarred warriors with grey streaked hair. These were the leaders of the archers and spearmen, the fourth and fifth legions of the army. Sir Hadrian, the captain of the knights of the first legion, was not there however. Neither was the leader of the third footman legion.
“Crono,” Schala said in greeting as she walked in, for formality bowing slightly. She herself was the commander of the second legion of footmen.
He nodded to her as she sat, but said not a word. His eyes were sorrowful as he glanced about the table where they sat. Once Serge, too, had found his place at Schala’s side, he began speaking.
“It seems that even our leadership has been ravaged by death. Lord Hadrian will not be joining us at this council. Neither will Lord Alakuret of the Tower.”
The two commanders looked at each other with heavy hearts. It seemed that they had been old friends with the Lord Alakuret.
“Let us not weep for them. There will be time enough for tears if we win this war.”
“If?” Schala said, frowning. “Let not the men hear such lack of faith from their leader.”
Crono shook his head.
“I merely speak of what I see. Look out upon that field,” he said, sweeping behind to where the battle plain lay beyond the tent, out of sight. “Tell me how many lie there dead.”
He paused as another entered the tent.
“Ah, Sigurd, greetings,” Crono said, welcoming him. His mood seemed at the least a little livened by seeing the boy. All the people had hailed the child a hero for his deeds, Crono not the least.
“My Lords,” Sigurd replied, bowing deeply to each in turn.
“Take a place,” Crono commanded. “Your actions this day ascribe you this much honour, at the least: to have a place in our council.”
Sigurd quietly took seat next to Janus, who took a keen look at him. He was unsure as to why the child was to be part of the counsel. His feelings of enmity had been quenched with Sigurd’s heroism, but he still felt some disquiet about him. Sigurd, for his part, could not quite understand the reasoning behind his presence, either. But no time was left to wonder at this, for Crono took up his speech again.
“My dear friends. In hindsight I see now that I have been acting somewhat foolishly, and against all my old wisdom.”
Schala was about to speak words in counter to this, but Crono continued.
“Yes, Schala. We most definitely had the victory in the field today, and yet...” he paused, sighing, and dropped his weary hands to the table.
“...and yet many of my countrymen lie dead on that plain, strewn in the midst of their enemies. Their blood runs in red strains across the grass of their own fatherland!”
Schala spoke at that moment, interrupting even though Crono attempted futilely to continue.
“We all feel that way. Speak to Serge regarding this if you doubt me.”
Serge nodded in agreement. But Crono shook his head.
“Yes, yes, I am certain. But what I am saying is that had it not been for the timely strike of Sigurd,” he looked shortly over in the child’s direction, “we may well have lost. Doom hung by a hair, and no prowess of men could undo it; it was only chance and fate, guiding the swordhand of a child, that saved us from ruin. And even should we not have been utterly destroyed, I would have surely perished, and the line of the kings of Guardia been broken as never before!”
Schala again spoke, much angered by Crono’s light reckoning of their victory.
“Crono, you did all you could and much, I think, does Porre rue your sword this night. Moreover, not one of your people has lost any faith in you.”
Crono shook his head sadly.
“No, I failed them this day. More died than should have; victory might have been swifter. I was cautious, planned out my movements, and acted with restrain. I thought to so do things carefully, averting heedless battle, as I had never done before. And this day is what it has brought to Guardia!”
He pushed his fist hard to the wooden table so that his knuckles paled, and anger showed on his face.
“You were correct, friend Janus, in what you said to me before, when we first came to Guardia. Once I was fearless. Foolish perhaps, and yet fate was ever on my side, protecting and blessing my efforts. But not so now! With my loss of courage...”
“Your valour is in no way lessened!” Schala cried suddenly, shaking her head in disdain of his words.
Crono hardly saw, and continued speaking in despite of her.
“With my loss of courage and recklessness fate seems to have left me to my own. My hesitation had cost me the life of my beloved Marle, wounding me more deeply than any sword. Now it has nearly ruined my land; if I had struck first we should not have been surrounded by their accursed sigaldry. From this day forward I will not await them, but thrust forward my assaults with twice my old zeal. You say Porre rues this loss; then bitterly indeed will they speak of the coming days.”
He spoke the last words so loudly that Serge started. He had been on the verge of drifting off to sleep, for he was spent with the day’s fighting. Schala still attempted to restrain Crono, however.
“Crono, it might still be advisable to yet exercise some caution,” she softly admonished him. But Crono dismissed her words with a sweep of his hand, and continued. Serge looked over at her, and saw that she now scowled bitterly, unhappy at Crono’s tirade and unwillingness to but listen to her counsel. For in Crono the reckless fire of his youth had begun once more to burn, and he did not care for any wisdom, thinking it all to be folly. He cried:
“But in what manner did I do things in my youth? Did I pause to contemplate my past mistakes, or wonder on future days?” he looked over to Serge and Sigurd, “And in youth there is a zeal that can overcome great obstacles, as Sigurd proved this day. And Serge, I have heard, showed the same time and again in many a battle.”
Serge admitted silently that he did feel slightly eager now, despite his many qualms about war. He would have to try to silence that dark excitement. He did not need his mind warring with itself.
Crono looked over to Sigurd and called:
“Sigurd!”
He turned to face Crono and nodded in respect.
“Yes, my Lord?”
“The captain of the third legion perished on the field today. You must take his command for the coming days of the war. Now...”
But Sigurd interrupted, much amazed by this, for he was still unsure even as to why he was in the council.
“Crono, my Lord, I do not think that I should. I am far too young and unlearned for this duty. There are many who are more apt to this than I. Lord Janus, for one, is far more accustomed to the commanding of men than I.”
But Crono replied:
“No, Janus is my right hand and herald, and I wish him by my side. Together we are thrice as mighty as each alone, and so I would not gladly have us part in battle.”
“What then,” continued Sigurd, “of the other lords? Surely there is another. Serge, is he not a hero?”
At this Serge spoke for himself and said:
“I’m no captain or commander. ”
Then Crono continued.
“Sigurd, I saw you in the battle today. You fought even as though there were a fire in your heart, and I would not have faced you lightly in that mood. Show me another of my people who can wields such sorcery as you, and I will make him captain in your stead. I can well see what you can accomplish, even if you cannot, for it seems that the same blood flows through our veins. You and I are of like spirit, and I know that if you deem yourself unworthy now it is but a passing thing: it is how I would have felt twenty years ago, before my adventure came upon me. Not till I understood my destiny did I rise to take command of the Seven. So I tell you that you have greater skills and worth in this than you understand; you are, after all, a sorcerer.”
Sigurd sat back once again and remained quiet, not certain what would become of this, nor why he merited such service and honour from his lord.
And now Crono continued.
“I have decided we press forward our assault at first light tomorrow. We strike for the castle of Guardia at once, while the enemy is still fearful and on the retreat, for we must not lose this precious chance and zeal we have gained from victory.”
Schala now stood, shaking her head so that her crimsoned hair shifted in among the gold as the flames of a fire; the clothes she wore, steeped in mud and dyed with dry blood, made her appear the more terrible, and at her rising Crono stopped to let her speak, for he could see well that she was angered with him.
“Crono, this is not youth. This is foolishness. What of the wounded who must be attended to?”
“We leave some to care for them; our army will still number three thousands at the least.”
“So that is your master plan, then? To strike for the greatest fortress in the north undermanned and weary? Think on your youth more keenly, and you will remember that speed did not always avail you. Need I recall to your memory the day upon which you assaulted the Ocean Palace of Zeal? Use caution, I warn you, or else...”
Crono scowled in vehement anger.
“Else what, Schala? Do you think I fear death?”
Schala nodded grimly.
“If you do not, then you are a fool, for only they are utterly fearless. Know that you should fear, for surely this time there will be no chance of fate to resurrect you, as was your luck before.”
Schala had now crossed her arms, and her eyes showed her flamed anger at his words. But he continued heedless of her mood.
“My life is worth no more to me than what I can accomplish with it. Sit, Schala, or leave this council if that is your choice!”
At this Schala clenched tight her teeth and fists in anger.
“You deign to order my coming and going or spurn my counsel? You who do not even claim lordship of that which is your right. Oh, you forget your precarious place, my friend. And speak not so lightly of me, child. Do not forget who I am, and address me as your servant”
To these words he replied:
“Am I a fool, Schala, that you think I have forgotten this?”
But she would not allow him to speak more, and raising a hand said in return:
“Yes, your heart bleeds. But think not in your pain that you are alone, and that you suffer more than many another. As you yourself have said, look upon the far plain of battle. Now take note of those who find their beloved perished. Mark their tears, and tell me if they are of lesser worth than yours. And do you not think that I, too, know the pain of death? Do you think that I do not know darkness of despair?”
“Schala,” he began, but his words had lost their former strength, whereas her tone had begun to heighten to one of regal command.
“Silence!” she cried. “Crono, you are falling prey to your grief and anger. Look at me: I may appear as one young, but you know well that I am no youthful girl. I was once the eldest of the children of the Queen of Zeal. Did I not watch as my mother succumbed to the evil of Rothros, called Lavos? And was I not for the eternity outside of time joined with that selfsame darkness? It bore hate, and pain, and sadness as has no compare in this world, and I too had a part in its every grief! Ah, I ever curse that cruel day, when I fell into the vile Tesseract! What strange chance that was it that I, alone of all my kin, should have borne the judgement of God for the sins of my people. I, who at risk of my mother’s cruel and terrible wrath spoke out against our unholy quest for immortal life. Yet I was the only one to achieve it, and finding that which I never yearned for, found it a curse beyond your reckoning, yea, beyond the reckoning of any mortal. For how can any of you comprehend a suffering that is eternal? You know only the finite; yet to me that eternity of sorrow I suffered yet echoes. So do not speak to me, Crono, Frey, even you hero of time, of such matters. I know them only too well, child! For that is what you are in my eyes; never forget! In that prison from which I could not escape it tortured and corrupted my very soul, bent to a will stronger than death.”
“Yes, yes, Schala, but that was long ago; even as you so call it to be an eternity in time, so too was it an eternity ago, and surely you have forgotten it by now. Do not, in this council, recall things that happened so long ago. Do I need advice from the former princess of a downfallen kingdom that now is but a shadow and myth?”
“Do you think that my torment is lost to my memory?” she cried in furious anger. “I assure you, nothing is more present in my mind! For how can one truly ever forget such a thing as that? The dragon magic of the Chrono Cross broke the chains that bound me, but that shadow of evil is ever there in my heart, a brooding menace that I can never shake!”
Serge shuddered to think of the memory of her during battle. Is that whence that power, her fury, came? She now paced the room before Crono, her arms crossed angrily across her chest.
“Live with such a burden for but a day, and then mayhap we could speak as equals!”
And at this Serge stood up, desperate to calm his angry comrades.
“Kid! Isn’t this the one thing that you would warn against? Wouldn’t you say that arguing amongst ourselves is the absolute worst thing we could do?”
Janus glanced about at both Crono and Schala, shaking his head.
“You know, Serge has a true point there. You forget your own wisdom, sister.”
Schala sighed, frowning ever so slightly. Then she smiled at Serge, her eyes brightening somewhat.
“Yeah, you’re right. I am truly sorry, Crono my friend. It is only that I swore to help the four of us unto death, remember? And, the way you’re going, you’re just looking to kill yourself. Remember, your people. You are their greatest hope, and last true leader. They need you, and this overshadows your own will and grief.”
Crono took a step back, his mood softening for an instant. He then sat back in his seat, nodding with understanding at her sodden softness.
“Ah, you speak wisely as ever. It is my grief for Marle that is overcoming me. And, I begin to doubt this quest of mine.”
“Yet I still think that speed is paramount. And as for my people...they could make do without me, if the need came, I deem.”
Sigurd shook his head, finally speaking up once more.
“My Lord, I know otherwise. Those were dark years without a king. We need you very much.”
“That is what you may think but, no, there are other hopes. If I were to die, others might rise to lead and command our people.”
Schala frowned, a sudden understanding seeming to be sparked in her keen mind. She glanced about the others in the room, but they had not noted the words as she had.
“Whaddya mean by that?” she asked, her uncertainty betrayed in her tongue.
Crono looked at her with hollow eyes fraught with contemplation...
“Truly nothing,” he said, seeing that he had spoken words he had not intended to say out loud. “It is nothing to concern yourselves with, and is only the worries of a captain. This war is a havoc in my mind.”
Schala looked at him inquisitively, a small smile crossing her face. She could read more into his words and eyes than the others, and certainly more than he had intended.
“Hold for a moment!” she said. “What is it you mean by that. I beg you tell me; already I think I understand somewhat.”
“Schala!” Crono cried, silencing her. “Neither here nor now, I beg of you.”
She continued to smile however, her eyes deep in thought. Serge looked at her, his expression questioning her, but she said not a word.
Finally after a long while she returned her gaze to Crono, comprehension in her eyes, laughed lightly.
“Yes, it certainly follows reason. But I understand your uncertainty. Regarding this I will talk to you later. But take heart. I think you are correct in your assumptions.”
Janus stood up from his chair, slightly angered by this enigma.
“What is this, Crono? Schala?”
But Schala fixed a stern gaze on him, and he sat down once more, scowling darkly. Indeed, Serge too wondered greatly about what had passed so mysteriously and wordlessly between Crono and Schala, and exchanged a mystified look with Sigurd. He shrugged as it eluded him. There was no use pressing the matter. Whatever it was, it wasn’t its time to be revealed.
It was long before their deliberations finally ended. It was at last decided that the assault upon the fortress of Guardia would wait several days, both until the wounded were attended to, and until siege weapons were prepared. For, though Crono had at first thought to take the castle by sudden storm, he was soon swayed from such thoughts by the advice of his friends which he heeded wisely. When they at long last stepped from the command tent, the stars were already in full bright array, the moon glowing pale in the night sky. Though the day had been full of sorrow and pain, the people were rejoicing for their victory. A great fire had been made in the very centre of the encampment, and round this the people danced and sang, eating and drinking, attempting to find joy amidst sadness.
Serge smiled at this display of hallowed tradition, for it reminded him much of his own home where things long remembered were looked upon with reverence. And so it quelled some of his ever present homesickness. The people danced to the lively tunes of wood flutes playing the ancient songs of Guardia, remembered through the generations from ages long past, perhaps even from old Rome herself. Though it was different from his own land, Serge had no trouble joining the people in their merrymaking. He amused the people with the quick seaside dances of his village, most certainly ill-placed alongside the sorrowful notes that echoed from the Guardian flutes.
Crono, too, was there, as were Schala and Janus. Crono and Janus did not join Serge in the revelling, for Crono was content to watch, glad to see the people so enlivened, and the wizard was never a man who cared much for celebration. Schala, however, mingled with the people as much as she might. She shared dances with the people in the Guardian tradition, but often continued on her own with light steps that seemed to flow like a tongue of fire about the space. To those who watched she appeared to be an angel, descended and veiled, for her eyes were like stars. These graceful dances, remembered by her from her ancient days as princess of Zeal, caused all the people to pause in wonder, for no such dances had been seen for thousands of years, being born themselves of some magic. Finally she moved alone about the fire, her silhouette a haunting ghost of some ancient time, long lost in the shadows of history. Serge too was entranced by her, for he had never seen her enchantments put to any other use than war, and for a time his heart forgot its disquiet.
After a time she paused, and stood still before the great fire. Then all thought she had ended, and began to rise. Yet now she began to sing, in such haunting tones that all the people once more sat rivetted, for her voice was as though it were of the very muse of heaven. She sung of ancient days, of Zeal in its peace and glory. Her voice echoed through the clear night, calling to mind a time without war, and the people that heard her were consoled in their sorrow.
Upon hearing of his ancient home, sung of by his sister, Janus too smiled. And, to Serge’s certain amazement, he joined her, and sung his own lays and idylls of Zeal, his dark and deep voice an opposite to her softer and lighter singing. Yet they flowed together as but two parts of a whole, and it seemed to those gathered that they saw Zeal appear once more before them in the night. Noble lords of magic, fair ladies of enchantment, and wise masters of knowledge. The images flowed in their minds as a recent memory, and not a few wept out of love of its beauty. For Zeal above the clouds was more fair than any land either before or after, and the lore and wisdom of its people was great.
And so they sang far into the night, of the shining citadel of Zeal, where the Queen sat in her majesty, ruling over the eternal kingdom. And they told tales of the city of Kajar, where the greatest of the minds of Zeal did experiments to further their knowledge of the world. And of the city of dreams, Enhasa, where rest cured all.
And yet, long though those tales lasted, their end came at last, though all were sorry to hear them end. But the two were not willing now to recount their land’s fall into darkness, and so ended.
As they left the space before the burning fire the people parted to let them pass, though not a few called out to them, thanking them for their tales. For they now saw that these two were not merely warriors of might and skill, but also magi of great wisdom and forgotten lore. When at last they broke from the people, and wandered out into the clear darkness away from the fire, Serge rushed up to her.
“Hey, Kid, wait up!” he called and she turned, hearing his approach.
“Ah, Serge. It is you. That was a thing well done, dancing in celebration among them. It endears you to them.”
“Well, likewise,” he answered. “I’ve never seen you sing or dance like that. That was from Zeal?”
She nodded.
“There is some part of me that is drawn to things of ancientry yet. The part that is Schala, that is. The second song was a melody I have long remembered from my childhood, and I have ever loved it above all others. In ancient Zeal it was called Melraset Selinacha; that is Radical Dreamers in our tongue.”
Janus turned to Serge, looking down on him from his towering height.
“As for you Serge, you made a fine fool of yourself.”
Serge did not answer, but laughed a little to himself at the wizard’s harshness; that was simply the man’s way.
“Zeal must have been wonderful, though,” Serge said.
Janus breathed heavily into the chill night air, sending fading pillars of smoke into the air, scarcely visible in the pale moonlight.
“Yes...for a time. Until the darkness.”
And he spoke no more, and neither did Schala. But such reminisces of the past were soon put aside, for they all knew that tomorrow would bring enough toil of its own. For though the battle was won, they were victorious for but a day, and the war was not over yet.Apologies for not posting the past few days. I lost track of this thing.
It’s still going well. Mucho dramatic, especially in the latest bit. 
Well, this isn’t quite as dramatic as the last third of the story or so, especially when it gets in the range of chapter 19; that’s a far more intense battle, in my opinion. Anyway, these things must go in order, so it’s fifteen, for now…
CHAPTER XIV (Part I)
WARFIRES
The morning found Serge in a much changed state of mind from the night before. It seemed that his sleeping mind had found a certain peace all of his reason could not.
He arose feeling hardly as disquieted as he had had the night before. His mind felt unchained as it had not for any day he could remember for months, from back before this journey began. Had the final seal finally been lifted then, by battle when nothing else could? He shook the last of the sleep from his mind and looked about his tent. He was anxious, to be sure, but more than a little eager. His hands caught up the hilt of the Masamunë, and he looked upon the sword with changed eyes from the night before. Then it had been the instrument of his duty, a symbol of the thing that he was compelled to do against his heart’s will. Yet now he felt himself loving the touch of the metal, feeling pride course through him as he remembered what it was to be master of this holy sword. His will and heart had returned undiminished, and nearly nothing short of death would be able to shake it from him.
He crept from the tent, shaking his lengthy hair from his eyes. For the most part it was still the dark shade of blue it had been a month before when he had left his village, but not wholly. It had grown somewhat, and was beginning to darken to its natural black shade. He took his red band from his tent and tied it fast about his head, keeping his locks aside. He no longer wore it as he had once, covering his whole head, but, rather, tied it simply as a band. An altogether grim look, he realized suddenly with an inner laugh. Unshaven, long hair only half dyed azure, and the bearer of a sword ten thousand years ancient; he had not looked at himself with such eyes. There was a certain power and fear in appearing so grim and fell (even as the ancient Spartans had held); and it made him appear far older than his eighteen years. A coursing thrill of power swept through his veins as he knew how few and little could truly stand against his wrath and sword. When was it that he had he forgotten quite how mighty he was?
As he crossed Janus’ path he the wizard laughed and said:
“Well now, someone has found a different spirit this morning.”
“You could tell?” Serge asked, brandishing the Masamunë about. How long had it been since he had done it so lightly? Far too long, he understood, now. Not since his great defeat of the Evil beyond time, when he had borne it to triumphant victory. Ah, those sweet days of forgotten memory, when he had been great among warriors, child though he was. But even the glory of it had been dimmed to his memory in the past months. He took careful account of his heart, now. Indeed, he still felt a wish to be home, and for peace. But now it was joined by an equal feeling of joy over the high calling into which he had fallen, and by his warrior’s spirit of strength and certainty over his own purpose. Even as he had felt toward the eve-tide of his adventures.
Janus laughed again, his ringing voice shattering the joyful thoughts that enwound Serge.
“Certainly,” Janus said. “I would be a poor wizard if I could not discern strength from weakness. And that I have been ever apt to measure. Yesterday you were beset by doubt and weak. Today your walk and glance tells me otherwise. I trust this is not a passing thing?”
“No,” Serge answered with certainty and a grim smile.
“Very good. We have an errand today, unless my foresight misses its mark. Not five moments ago a horseman rode into the encampment. I think he brings tidings of a raiding band of troops, though I cannot be sure. I was sent at once to summon you.”
Together they strode to the outskirts of the war camp. Serge could hardly keep from marking that Janus’ voice seemed to hold far more respect than it had had before. Though he had not understood it in past days, he was now certain that Janus had inwardly scoffed at all the doubts that had swept Serge, a thing only made clear in afterthought.
The day itself was grim and drear, though perhaps this was fitting for the morning following a battle. The memory of an overnight rain lingered still in the air, and the ground was cold and damp at his feet. Thankfully the wind blew from the east, and kept the smell of decay out of the camp; the battlefield was not a pleasant sight, and did not smell any better than it appeared to the eyes.
When they found Crono he was in earnest speech with a dismounted horseman. Emblazoned upon the man’s shield was the device of a single grey circle on a field of green.
“A messenger?” Serge asked as he came upon Crono. “He’s injured,” he said, seeing that the shield the man bore was bloodied and shorn; likewise the armour in which he was arrayed was rent and scored. Blood shone on the pale metal and from wounds beneath.
“It is nothing, my Lord,” the knight said in reply to Serge. “As I have been saying to the King, Stoneshield is besieged. A company of Porre dragoons, one hundred strong, is at our gates. We have taken refuge behind the walls, but Stoneshield is a walled city only, and no fortress. We cannot hold off so many at length.”
“Horses, swiftly!” Crono cried, and at once two pages sped away. He then turned to Janus.
“We cannot raise a force to match with enough speed to break their attack, but through our spellcraft we may compel them into abandoning their siege.”
Janus nodded in understanding.
“Who rides, then? I will most certainly take your side, and I think Serge as well, for he is finding himself more inclined to drawing blood today.”
Crono now took a glance at Serge, and nodded with a smile on his lips.
“Ah, so it was that your hero’s spirit never left at all, but only slept. Well, bid it good morning! It is needed this day. Yes, you will ride by my side with Janus. And Schala. Schala!” he called. She must certainly have been near, for she came forward a moment later. It was apparent that she had expected this riding already. A sword was at her side, and she wore her grim battle-mantle, uncleaned of the stains of the last day.
“Yes,” she trailed, and took up a solemn stare to the south. “Stoneshield burns with siege fires. We must be swift.”
The four rode off some swift minutes later. It had been a sudden rising for Serge, and an even more quick departure. But he understood the dire need, and that was balm enough for his temper. The wind from the speed of his stallion’s run traced through his hair, and in joy he smiled.
But it was a joy that turned to sombre bitterness that afternoon. Even before they came upon the city, they could nose the reek of the fires: Stoneshield was burning. As they came around the last hill, the sight was laid bare before their eyes, and Crono cursed their fortune. They were too late: the tall towers were wreathed in dark smoke that trailed to the sky and away, the last reminder of fires that had scorched the city. The limestone walls were blackened, and the gate lay in ruin below the hollow archway. Not a sound was heard in the gate square as they rode cautiously in.
“No soldiers,” Serge said after a time. “Not one.”
Crono nodded his head in silent agreement.
“Neither can I see any. Yet there is enough proof of their having been here. See!”
And he pointed to the far edges of the square. Here and there among the ruin lay the bodies of the slain people of the town. Knights in ruined armour, men in dusty peasant garb, and the women and children.
“These weren’t soldiers, mostly,” Serge said, leaping from his horse and looking about the death filled square. “These were the peasantry that didn’t even come to fight with you.”
“Thus attempting to appease the wrath of Porre,” Janus said. “The fools. It did little to help them.”
The other three leaped from their mounts, and began seeking amidst the dead for any that might yet be faintly alive, but none were. Either through fire or sword, spear or rifle, all were dead to the child.
Crono swept out his sword and in anger struck off the crown of a stray pole of timber.
“So, too late, then. Hours or minutes, but dead is dead, and our haste has been in vain...Halt!” he called suddenly. At the far verge of the square, a man could be seen. He coward fearfully, and with good reason, for he was a soldier of Porre.
Crono beckoned him over, but the soldier had a wild fear in his eyes, and sped for the gate. From his horse Crono took a strung bow and, with a calm yet fell eye, set an arrow to it, drew it back, and let it fly. It was true as to his intent, and struck where he had shot for, in the man’s thigh. With a cry of pain he faltered to the ground, still attempting to flee as a best he might across the earth.
With relentless steps, Crono overtook him. Raising him up by his hair he drew a level gaze with the stricken soldier.
“Deserter?” he asked with a certain chill wrath to his voice.
The man nodded quickly.
“Yes. I am. Yet I took no part in this, and rather ran. I swear to you I ran before they did this. I’m Guardian, and not of Porre. I couldn’t follow their orders.”
At these words Crono relented his grip and let the man fall.
“But a traitor for joining their ranks even so. You fight for the enemies of your country!” he said to the man, who nodded and began weeping.
“I had though Guardia would never rise again,” he stammered between tears.
Crono sighed.
“There were many days when I thought the same. Have you taken any of the lives of your countrymen?”
The man shook his head.
“No, never. I did not take part in today’s battle, and have for a fortnight been stationed at the bridge. But Captain Wedgal is a cruel man, and speaks often with the soldiery of the Black Wind. Two nights ago he gave sudden orders that we march on this town. And so you see what has become of that, though again I swear that I deserted from the ranks before the battle was begun.”
“You have not slain your brethren,” Crono said. “And my arrow has been the blood-price of your treachery.”
He glanced down at where the shaft still held in the flesh, bleeding fiercely, and said:
“Let no guilt of this rest on you. I, your uncrowned king, forgive you.”
“King?” the man stammered, and it seemed his heart would fail, for his face paled to a ghostlike shade, and he threw himself at Crono’s feet.
“I am an errant servant, my liege. From this day, I will be the truest of the children of this land, and hold you my only captain.”
“We shall see, if Guardia ever rises again,” Crono said. “Yet other things need doing this day. Tell me now, that you may atone for your servitude: Which way did your company ride, that we may bring vengeance down upon the heads of those that did this?”
Gladly the man spoke, his tears not lessening, though a smile touched on his lips.
“West, through the woods, and to the plains beyond. They are riding to the muster at the bridge again where, I have heard, they will await the coming of the armies of Porre; they say that that shall be at least a fortnight.”
“Very well,” Crono replied. “I will send you back to camp with Lord Janus.”
He strode back to where the horses stood. Janus knelt by the body of a brown clad man, contemplating him carefully.
“Why did they destroy Stonshield?” he asked of a sudden. “Why this raid and town? What does it hold of value to their armies? It only stands to reason that they would not so recklessly attack if they could not reap some benefit.”
Crono shook his head.
“Not a thing that an army would care for. It was a town of learning and scholars. See this tower here?”
He raised his hand to the stone foundation of the building beside which Janus knelt. From its roof a pinnacled spire rose.
“This was a great monastery.”
“That I can see,” Janus muttered to himself, returning his gaze to the man who lay dead before him. His clothes were drab brown and of rough weaving. His hair was trimmed so that it set a ring about his head. A sword wound through the chest had slain him.
“But why?” Janus repeated, rising.
“To make us feel wrath, Janus, whereby we might cease caution and cunning, and lose the zeal of our recent victory.” Crono said, beginning to tire of the questions. “This I need not tell you; it is an old stratagem that you yourself put into use not a few times. To lose this town is a great loss for my land.”
“Perhaps,” Janus muttered. “And yet maybe you do not see clearly. How have a hundred men have destroyed a city of a thousand?”
“A town largely of peasants, Janus,” Crono replied. “Not many were the knights here; the lord of the town and his kin. Twelve swords at best.”
“But, see!” the wizard said, sweeping his hand to where the dead man lay. His left hand was death-clawed at the dirt, and at their tips a vague drawing sat in the dust.
“What does this mean?” Janus asked, kneeling beside it, and taking it under careful study. But to discover its meaning was useless. Whatever it was had been mostly washed away in the tramping of feet.
Schala peered past him.
“Janus, my heart feels quickened. It appears odd, yet perhaps is nothing. Crono has said Stoneshield was a place of learning; perhaps this symbol was sacred.”
She knelt beside it and shook her head with uncertainty.
“It is no cross. Neither is it any other sign I can discern. Janus, you know of such things: can you see any meaning in it that I cannot?”
“No,” he replied. “Yet it is faded much; it could be near anything.”
Serge too came over now, looking strangely at the place.
“It looks like nothing to me,” he said. It appeared to be only a confusion of curved lines. Yet as his eyes touched it, and he spoke, he suddenly felt himself lighten, and his reason left him. In a flash he saw an image, but was uncertain. A devouring darkness swept past his sight. And then barely whispered words: “Es ros asant tino achosal. Hael es diom adeaio. Es diom Kuro! Aith henamet il es Ander!”...and then it cleared, and his mind was certain again.
“Aith henamet il es Ander...” he murmured in a last echo.
“Beware the South?” Janus said uncertainly. “As if we do not know this. But what is this, Serge? You speak in the Zeal tongue, which you do not know. But if this is prophecy, it is unavailing.”
“I don’t know,” Serge answered, having no understanding himself. “Darkness, and death. But what it has to do with anything here.” He looked about and said: “It’s probably just that. This place, all this death, is a little unsettling.”
Crono himself was now pacing, anger building against those enemies who had been so ruthless.
“Look, Serge!” Crono cried with blazing eyes. “Look well at the fabled might of Porre. Their matchless power to kill women and children, the old and the blind. Ha! Great indeed, they say? I say we show what a bitter vengeance they have sown against themselves!”
Serge stood at the side of a slain young child. This people was foreign to him, but still his heart felt greatly turned against Porre. Such deeds went beyond the needs of war, and spoke of a heartless cruelty that ran deep.
“We’re going after them?” Serge asked.
Crono gave him a strange glance, as if wondering at the need to even ask such a question. Without a reply he leaped upon his horse, drawing the reigns tight into his fists.
“I am hunting them down without mercy,” he said and looked at Schala, who, too, had mounted her steed, as if looking for her to say some words of wisdom, warning against such a rash act of vengeance. But even as she had appeared to Serge during the battle, a strange light hid behind her eyes, and she gave no warning. Rather she smiled, almost wickedly, with a near laugh escaping her.
“If that is your will, I will not gainsay it, and beg you to allow my company, for I think that you may have need of my blade before long. Serge, here are two paths: choose which seems the better.”
Serge nodded his agreement to the first; he felt more inclined to the company of Schala and Crono than Janus, for he felt uncertain as to his duties should he return to camp. And so the three set off west, while Janus bore the injured soldier to the encampment. If he was ill-favoured over this, he did not show it. But the command of the army was granted him till Crono’s return, so perhaps this lightened his mood.
The hunt was longer than they had looked for, however. The main host, it seemed, had splintered, and Crono chose to follow the smallest group, which was likely the officers and leaders of the assault. But these, they soon found, had moved swiftly. And so the first day was fruitless, and found them making a scant camp in the cold, with only what slight provisions they had taken for the day to take meal from. And, worse, they had little in the way of shelter, and so the night that passed was a harsh one, with only a small warming fire to keep them company. They rose early the next day, even as the touch of dawn was upon the far hills, so as to shorten the space between them and those they pursued. Then finally, as night had set upon the land, they came upon the firelight of the enemy camp (and much relieved they were, for they were hungry and weary, and even Crono would not have pressed the chase another day.)
Dismounting from their horses, they crawled slowly across the chill grass of the ground towards the small depressed enclave near the eaves of a forest where the enemy was encamped.
“How many?” Serge asked, coming up behind the other two.
“Three score. Twenty riflemen, and a handful of swordsman,” Crono whispered. “Not for trifling, but still not a great fear.”
“Crono?” Schala asked with wise concern. “Is your anger shadowing your judgement? Must I remind you of their rifles? This is no field-battle; here they will see an enemy on but one side. Even with the sorcery of us three, I think it would go hard with us.”
Crono did not answer at once, but Serge saw his gaze darken, and his breathing deepen in rage.
“Schala, these are the very men who led the ruthless assault upon Stoneshield. What sort of leader would my people account me if I shied away from dealing vengeance upon their enemies? If you think it foolishness, you need not take part. I will do what I may on my own.”
And before either Schala or Serge could stay him he stood, tall upon the edge of the shallow vale. He drew his sword and held it at his side with a menacing look upon his face.
The soldiers saw him quickly enough, and a dozen rifles were raised in sudden reply, their locks clicking to the ready. None were afraid, for who, even among magicians, could ward against such an array?
Then Crono spoke angrily, his wrathful voice at setting some slight fear, at least, into the hearts of the men sitting in the vale:
“You have slain my people with your murderous ways, and now need bear the burden of judgement!”
At this Schala and Serge stood, and now there were three that the enemy needed looking to.
But still the commander of the troop was unafraid. He stepped forward, disdain over the harsh words plain upon his lips, and said in reply:
“Finely crafted words for a fool. Now leave, unless you wish me to deal with you likewise.”
With a sign of his hand the remainder of the soldiers, those who had not yet taken up arms, bore up their weapons; all flints were drawn back.
Yet Crono did not waver, and his anger grew all the more fearsome at these haughty words.
“Have you then no remorse for your deeds? None whatsoever?” he said, in a voice of mingled rage and disbelief. He had at least thought that they would profess some innocence, or perhaps excuse their deeds with duty. But the commander was without doubt a cruel man.
“Peasants and rebels,” he said. “As are you, no doubt. Yet you are fortunate, for we are in no mood for a battle this night, and wish only for our peace.”
And now, at this utter disdain, Crono’s anger was kindled to consuming wrath. His eyes blazed to star-like brilliance, and the sword he held in his hand was as though it were forged from the rainbow itself, for it shone undiminished in the night.
“Tartarus grant you the peace you have earned!” Crono cried, and lifted his sword high.
A full half of the enemy stepped back a pace; but still their guns were aimed true, and so the cruel captain was still fearless. And he now knew his foe to be a sorcerer, and was wise enough not to trifle with that sort. At once he cried:
“Kill them. Open fire!”
With that command the echo of a dozen rifles splintered in the night air.
But too dark was Crono’s wrath for even that dire assault; he leaped forward even as the shot did, and cast his arms outward. Lightning lit the vale with its ghostly light, and thunder shook the air and ground: the shots recoiled and fell harmless to the earth.
And now, at last, the enemy commander paled, for such power the man had not expected neither in this nor any foe. He stumbled a step backward, and would have fled, but the fear that rose in him was so potent it overclouded his reason. Crono, for his part, looked to his right and left, at Serge and Schala, and said:
“This vengeance is mine for my people: do not aid me in this.”
But his voice seemed strange, darker and more grim than it had ever been before, and echoed with an almost immortal power. Even Schala felt fear at crossing him, and retreated to allow him his will.
Crono strode down the vale-side, his sword fast in his outstretched hand. He came upon the men who now broke and ran from his approach as best they might, having abandoned all thought of opposing him. And now the light that surrounded Crono grew to dazzling brilliance. As Serge and Schala looked on in wonder the dark clouds high overhead wheeled and gathered like those of a glowering storm. Crono raised his shining sword blade high, and at once a winding snake of forked lightning leaped from the canopy, striking both blade and earth all about; Crono was unharmed, but smoke rose from the stricken earth.
The commander was the first to die, struck through the heart by Crono’s sword. Still the others tried at fleeing, but they were caged in by lightning that played about the dale: it was death to cross it, and death to stay. For Crono silently walked to each man, heedless of any cries for mercy or pity, and slew them in their turn, at each stroke saying: “Such is the vengeance of Guardia.”
When the last of the men lay dead, the fires of the light subsided and Crono’s eyes ceased flaring. And as they did, he stumbled to the ground, spent. Serge and Schala came to his side at once, wonder and fear still touching them.
“That was a trifle too harsh, I believe,” Crono muttered as he tried at standing. But his legs did not allow him, and he faltered to the ground once again. “Yes, indeed, far too harsh.”
Schala looked at him gravely.
“Not merely harsh, but perilous, and fraught with darkness. Do you wish to wander the same evil paths of vengeance that my brother once did? Such a deed is not becoming of a hero.”
Crono laughed weakly.
“It was my own will, Schala, I cannot hide it. And for better or worse it is done, now. Ai, all who have ventured too near to Lavos harbor such malice within them: and I was once destroyed by him, or do you forget?”
He rose to his knees.
“Nevertheless, it is not a proud deed, and I will remember it bitterly.”
Schala looked at him warily, as did Serge.
“That was quite something, though” Serge said, still amazed. “I’ve never seen magic like that before: it was like the sky was at your command.”
Crono nodded.
“Perhaps it was, but only perforce to my will. Schala speaks truly,” and now his voice sombred, as if he finally understood how darkly the deed had been done, “this is not a hero’s deed. Come, let us be off.”
Carefully they led him to his horse, which he mounted slowly.
“Let us not speak of this again,” he said, casting a mournful gaze of the dale. “And let this be a warning to us, against the power we wield.”
But it seemed to Serge that these words were more for Schala than for him.CHAPTER XV (Part II)
WARFIRES
They returned as morning was rising two days later. Even as they entered the eaves of the forest of Guardia, they heard the unmistakable sounds of battle greet their ears. From the sharp crack of guns, heard echo even in the far reaches of the forest many miles from the castle, they could discern that the defenders were putting up a stout defence. The entire of the war camp had been removed from the Truce fields, and assembled in a great clearing near the castle, amidst the Great Wood of Guardia. Crono sought out Janus (whom he found at the edge of the camp, overseeing the coming and going of war-companies), while the other two went to eat and quell their hunger.
“How goes the siege?” Crono asked, striding up behind the wizard.
Janus turned sharply.
“Rather, how goes it with you? The last I left you, you rode forth in anger. Now there is blood on your sword,” he said (though when he said this Crono had not unsheathed his sword.)
Crono did not answer at once, and when he did, he simply said: “They have had their vengeance.”
But he did not tell of what had chanced.
Even so Janus nodded, and perhaps read much of what lay unspoken. For he understood the ways of vengeance all too well: they had been his lifeblood for near to twenty years. For a moment he said nothing, then took up a long gaze to where the castle sat unseen beyond the trees of the forest. Then speaking said:
“But the battle, Crono...It could hardly be worse! I have counted the loss of three of the enemy on the walls; the number we have lost in doing so is more than two dozen. I am sorry, my friend, but I can do no better.”
Crono started at these tidings, for if proud Janus was confessing difficulty, then things must be dire indeed.
“That is a sturdy fortress that they hold,” he continued. “Their archers and gunners patrol the walls, day and night regardless. I swear they have the eyes of hawks. We cannot get within a hundred yards of them without being hailed with a storm of shot and darts.”
“Is there no spell you can work? No dark magic?” Crono asked.
Janus shook his head bitterly.
“No, and yes. To be potent enough to breach those battlements I must gain the walls. It is well beyond even my strength to assault the defences through distant sorcery, unless you know the secret spells that bind the stone to the foundation.”
Crono shook his head and said: “The foundations are laid with unenchanted stone; no wizardry binds them.”
“Very well then,” Janus said. “And, between their riflemen and accursed wizards, may they suffer in hell, I must concede I have not been able to come nearer than a hundred paces of the wall myself.”
He scowled fearsomely.
“And I have the faint suspicion that they are shooting for me especially.”
He swept his cloak about, and it was rent with not a few rather large holes.
Crono laughed at the wizard’s amazement over this.
“Little wonder, my friend. Or, did you fail to see your standing amidst the men?”
Janus glanced about. He was a full head taller than those around him, and twice as great in bulk.
“Yes,” he muttered, then continued saying: “But what would you have me do? I’ve been holding out here for two days now, waiting for your to return,” he scowled, “playing war games with these Porre fools, and losing I might add. That, above all else, is something I ill endure. I will do so no longer: this is your war, and your strategy is needed above all else.”
Crono said nothing, but knew the truth of the matter as well as any.
“Maybe,” he muttered as he looked about, seeing the companies of warriors running hither and thither about the space. Some were wounded from the last assault, while others were to try their luck at the next.
“Sound a retreat,” Crono said suddenly. “Call every man to return to the camp.”
Janus nodded shortly, and called to the seneschal of the camp to do so.
“This assault is fruitless,” Crono said after a moment, taking up an aimless pace with Janus at his side. “I should have foreseen this: that castle cannot be overcome through any might of assault. And we need siege engines: are they prepared yet, as I commanded?”
Janus was about to reply, but at that moment Sigurd strode up. His rough-sewn peasant clothes were in disarray and bore the marks of battle. The armour he bore, a hauberk of light linked rings and a shield, was likewise stained. Across his face and limbs were the red tracings of new wounds. As he spoke it was plain that they pained him, for he ceaselessly glanced.
“My Lords,” he greeted the two, and bowed shortly. “My division is hard pressed; twice now have I led my men against the fortress, as I have been ordered to do,” and then he paused, taking up a grave and uncertain look. “But if I may say so, I fear it is a futile effort. Ever we lose many of our people, more than we take of the enemy. We are disheartened, my Lord Crono, and I not the least.”
“The retreat has been sounded, Sigurd,” Janus replied before Crono could. “It would be wise to heed it and take what rest you may while peace lasts. But never, child, speak of our effort as futile while you captain men: you must act as though the very walls of Hades are surmountable under your command, and dissemble your fear.”
Whatever Sigurd truly thought of this reproach remained hidden, and he merely said: “As you will,” and turning, left.
“That is a strange child,” Janus said when Sigurd had left from earshot. “He is a fine commander, at least for one so young, but not one I would have chosen for such a post. But I must admit, grudgingly, that he is not a weakling in the use of his magic, and a worthy swordsman in his own right. If he outlives this war, he may one day become a mighty warrior in your hall.”
“You have a much changed appraisal of him then at your first meeting, then,” Crono said. “But there is much that he has yet to reveal to us, I think, and to himself, for that matter.”
“How so?” Janus asked. He was still curious as to Crono’s admiration for the young soldier. It was true that he showed much valour, but there were many others as well who showed no less bravery.
“We shall see,” Crono replied shortly. “Whatever may be, mighty blood runs in him. He seems like to a prince in valour, does he not?”
Janus shook his head.
“A prince? I would think not. That is high praise for a fisherman. Even one with so mighty a sword.”
“A prince of fishermen, then!” Crono answered in return with a laugh.
Janus looked about at the sound of a distant horn that echoed dimly between the trees of a sudden.
“Ah, that is the signal. Come, Crono, the meeting tent is this way. Let us see if you are as fine a strategist as a hero.”
They took up walking at a slow pace crossways across the camp, to where the tent lay.
“Is my sister back as well?” Janus asked.
Crono nodded.
“Yes, we have all returned safely enough.”
Janus turned to face him.
“But I am forgetting! You were asking about the siege weapons.”
“Yes, I was,” Crono said, “How is the construction I ordered proceeding?”
Janus shook his head, bitterly.
“Slowly, if that. No one here has the skill to make such engines of war. Mangonels, ballistae...what do these people know of such things? We have few of either. I couldn’t even take a border post without a greater array of weapons.”
Crono shook his head. A sad smile crossed his lips.
“Ah, it is times such as these that I wish to have Lady Ashtear amongst us once again. She would surely have engineered some mighty counters to those Porre weapons. Her science outmatched these infernal inventions of Porre by as much as they are beyond us. If she were here now we, not they, would have the advantage. But it is pointless to wish for the unattainable,” and he paused for a moment, then said: “Yet we must have those weapons, Janus! Prevail upon the craftsman. Five days from now I want such a number as will strike fear into the hearts of our enemies.”
At that they said no more, and came to the tent where the captains gathered. Here there were assembled, other than they: Serge, Schala, Sigurd, and a small group of the other captains of the divisions. Of these most were injured in some manner, attesting to the bitter and futile battle that had been waged for the last two days.
“I am loath to do so, but I will agree with captain Sigurd,” Crono said as he sat. “In despite of your certain valour in this assault, it is futile.”
For the most part the captains nodded in agreement.
“An understatement, to be sure,” one, a certain lord by the name of Medesior, said, “Forty seven. That is the tale of men I have lost, Lord. We grow disheartened by the hour, and what courage we gained from the field victory is vanished. I pray your guidance will better our state.”
“In regards to that, lord Medesior, we shall see. But the matter at hand is this: Porre has been slow to ready a force to come to the aid of their besieged comrades. That is both good and ill: good, for it gives us more time than I had hoped for; ill, because it means when they do finally march north, it will be with such numbers that we will not have any hope of victory. But for now, I will call it good. And to this end, I will need no less than two score siege weapons in five days time.”
“Crono, that may be an impossibility, no matter what your hope,” Janus said darkly.
“I is not hope it is need, and so will be!” Crono responded striking the table, resolve in his voice. “On the fifth day we assault the castle gate.”
This set the captains astir, and at last Schala spoke for them:
“Bold, to be sure, Crono. Now if you are through startling us, what else do you plan in this? For alone with such an army as you have it is a foolish, and that you are not.”
He paused for half a moment, then smiling said:
“The castle is nearly one thousand years old, raised by the first king of Guardia when Rome still held sway in the east. So it is that the walls have begun to weaken in many places. It is at these that we must press our assault, and take the castle itself. Yet, as Lord Janus has told me, we cannot come within one hundred paces of them and live. We must therefore keep their watch busy in other places, while we try this. And the gate is our best hope to do so.”
The lord who had spoken before now stood again.
“But my Captain, will not Porre see trickery in this? None would send an entire army into such a perilous onslaught if there were not some guile; surely Porre will know this, and be all the more wary for it,” he said, at which Crono replied with a cunning smile:
“So it may be. But what does it matter? Even if they know it to be a ploy we will have forced their hand, and they will at needs fortify the gate. But the error in this will be greater than they foresee, I am sure...”
“And we possess the ability with which to bring down the wall?” the lord said, still in doubt, “The infernal cannons of Porre can destroy stone, but we do not have such a weapon.”
But at this Janus spoke:
“What need are cannons when we have sorcery? Rest assured, captain, I can render the walls dust, if I can only gain them.”
The lord nodded in understanding, saying:
“Very well, you may hold me and those under my command ready.”
“The entirety of this stratagem is quite simple,” Crono continued. “Once they send their troops to fortify the gate, the wall will be taken down. Then we need simply march with all speed upon the breach. I think that they will be taken unawares by this, and not have time to rally their troops to counter an assault from within their very walls. Moreover, if we can strike swiftly enough they will not be able to retreat into the fastness of the inner keep: we will have split their forces in two, and the battle should be easier. But, as you can see, from beginning to end this stratagem relies on the destruction of the wall.”
All the captains nodded, for the plan seemed good to them as well.
Crono then looked to Sigurd.
“Sigurd, I must take you away from your command. I have a far more pressing duty for you.”
Sigurd was looked warily across the table, unsure whether this would bode well or ill for him..
“How so?” he asked cautiously.
“I have heard rumours from the north that I cannot overlook. Our forces number five thousand now, but another five hundred horseman and knights we could have had. I speak of those that fled into the Dire Woods, and which I at dismissed as having perished. But I have begun to doubt that as rash despair. So I wish you to seek them out. Ride with all swiftness the paths of the north, and raise the cry that Guardia is at war; if they yet live, lead them to our muster here at the Castle.”
Sigurd nodded.
“Very well. If they live, I will find them.”
“This will not be easy,” Crono said to Sigurd’s hasty reply. “The journey is long, and the woods terrible to travel. It is likely that those regions are the last stronghold of the Mystics that live on this main continent; I counsel you not to cross them, for I am certain they are perilous. Do not dismiss the use of your magic, or to land fatal blows, if need be. Though I would rather ally with them if they do dwell there, they are a race that is long in the forgetting. They live in the waking memory of the great war four hundred years ago, and I do not think they would welcome any such treaties.”
Again Sigurd nodded.
“As much as is within my might, I will use. And do not concern yourself with my peril; rather I think that the Mystics are in greater danger. I will unleash the wrath of heaven upon them if they bar my way.”
Janus laughed at these words, but Crono bade him be silent and said:
“Sigurd, do not speak with such foolish courage. I know you to be mighty, but I tell you that I have seen foes that would leech your face white. So strong you are not, and the dwellers of the northern forests are most certainly Swart Elves, and other fay creatures. I warn you not to take lightly any you may cross. You say you will unleash storms upon them? I say rather bring them winter!”
“Winter?” Sigurd asked, his eyes unsettled and uncertain. “I do not know what you speak of.”
“You would lie to me?” Crono said slowly, with his eyes resting heavily on the child. At that moment Janus stood, and said:
“Then there is a secret! My sister, by her strange wisdom, has some understanding of it. But from me you have kept it continually hidden. And now again you speak in enigma? Speak plainly, or I might feel compelled to become angry.”
He said these last words in the tone of a grim jest; though he was the greater sorcerer, Crono was the mightier warrior. Janus was not fool enough to truly threaten him, but rather spoke in such a way so as to entreat Crono to speak.
Crono sighed at this, seeing that further silence would only serve to bring dissension and anger.
“Very well,” he said, taking a deep breath, and looking sternly upon Sigurd. “I but guess, yet I think I am correct in saying that your sorcery is twofold: of both the sky and the winter.”
Sigurd stood, wonder in his face.
“How do you know this my Lord? You speak the truth, I will not deny it now. But I have always judged it inferior; for is not the peril of winter dire but slow in the making, whereas the anger of the sky swift as unforseen lightning? Such combat has been my wont, and I care not for the slower. Yet, how can you know this?” he stammered, and sat once again, unsure, bewildered, and amazed alike.
“It is not so incredible as you might think, captain,” Crono said with a deepening smile. “It is only one piece of a puzzle which I have been attempting to complete since I first met you. Only one now remains, and then it shall be solved, for better or worse.”
“What puzzle?” Sigurd said. “I hide nothing! I swear to you, by the Dragon of Guardia. It was with no ill intent that I did not tell you of my full sorcery. And now that it is said, you know all.”
“Captain Sigurd,” Crono said, “I believe you: it is a mystery to you as well, I am sure. But now, answer me this: your parents in the east, your father who gave you that sword you wield: is he your birth father?”
And now Sigurd paled, for it seemed to him that Crono could read his very mind. He opened his mouth, but no words came, so he shook his head slowly.
Janus looked to Crono, and so did Serge and Schala, who till now had remained watchers. But Crono smiled, and it seemed as if many cares lifted from him.
Sigurd, still in a very confused state of mind, rose.
“My Lord, if it please you: since you have solved some riddle of which I know nothing about, would you care to tell me of it?”
Crono nodded, laughing lightly as he did.
“Yes, indeed, child: you hold a strange light in your eyes; you have powers of both lightning and winter; you wield my old sword; when I first met you, did I not pause for, as I told you then, you reminded me of myself? And now the final piece has fallen. Those who raised you are not those who bore you. Is it not plain?”
Sigurd shook his head.
“What, then? Can this be?” he murmured in wonder.
Janus looked from Crono to Sigurd, and back again, understanding.
“Little wonder that you took such a liking to him, then...”
Serge too saw it now, and Schala, who had shared in Crono’s secret, nodded with a smile.
And, indeed, Sigurd too knew what Crono meant, yet had not the courage to speak it. Crono instead said it:
“I have said before that my death should not be the death-knell to Guardia. For, Sigurd, your surname in old Zeal would have been Freynos, as my son and royal heir.”
Sigurd looked about as one who wonders if they are in a dream, hearing but not trusting the ears.
“But how can this be?” he said at last.
“How can I be your father?” Crono said. “That is easier to tell, and I will say now of what I know:
When Porre invaded Guardia, princess Nadia Blancheflor, your mother, and I went to war, endeavouring to ward off their legions. We left our child, but one year old at the time, with some villagers I knew in my old home town of Truce. Those battles devastated our hopes, for there was not the time in which to raise the army. The military, such as it was, had already marched to battle, and been destroyed, for the most part. What men I gathered under my command I rallied at the castle itself, and hoped to hold it till Porre became weary of the siege, or some unlooked for aid came. But I had over-guessed my strength. Despite all our powers, the castle itself fell. But the worst would come after: Fleeing from the sack of the fortress we came to Truce and, to our dismay, found it set to fire by the enemy. The house where we had left our child was in ashes, and the good people that had guarded you slain. Nearly we despaired at life. But we gathered our wills, and used our wrath as kindling against Porre, which we made war upon in secret. The dark was our ally in those years, the wilderness our friend. Ever we evaded our enemies in forest and field, striking with speed and disappearing with even more swiftness. Once again, as in our youth, we found ourselves alone against the world. But fortune turned against us at last, and in an ambush your mother was taken. Unable to continue alone and unaided I fled the island, hoping to enlist aid from afar. And in this my efforts were blessed, and upon the shores of Guardia I met Lord Janus and Lady Schala; a month later, Serge came to my aid. Renewed in strength, I returned here. But it was in vain. Your mother was slain, an ignoble death for such a noble lady, who had defied a demon. That drove me at last to this war, but all hope for myself left me. I was defeated in my heart. But it was uplifted once again when I saw you. Even before I knew you for sure, my heart rejoiced, and some of my pain abated. I know not how you were taken in by those fisher folk, but they must be thanked greatly for raising my son, the prince of Guardia. Scarce better could I have hoped for you, my son. You are indeed most worthy of that title that you shall now own from this time onward. And in time you shall be a mighty king.”
He stood, and Serge saw that the nobility had returned. The grim wisdom of a great king was in his face, the weight of thousands of lives in his eyes. And yet these he bore now with majesty, equal to the great responsibilities laid upon him.
“So now that an heir lives, let Guardia rejoice! It may yet have a future. But, now that I name you prince, I can no longer hold that title...”
The commanders all stood, bowing before him in anticipation of his words.
“Today I claim my own, my title of old. May Guardia lack a king no longer!”
He turned to Schala.
“And after the war I will be crowned as I should be.”
Schala shook her head.
“Nay, not after this war. You shall be crowned today, yea, this very hour. I took thought to this from the first moment I understood the truth of this child’s birth.”
And now Crono, in turn, was astonished. For from her pack she drew a glorious crown. It was wrought of gold and silver, with the gilded curves and golden vines enwound about the silver. A single gem of crimson sat upon the brow, a majestic centre to a crown worthy of a mighty lord.
“Selinost? That is a fragment of Dreamstone that adorns that crown...” Janus whispered in awe to Serge standing beside him. “Not since the days of Zeal has a sovereign been crowned with it. It is said, truthfully or not, that the one who wears it gains wisdom beyond all other mortals.”
Schala overheard him and nodded in affirmation.
“So too have I heard. This is the very last of its kind in the world, as ancient times now draw to a close. It came into my keeping long ago from my foster-mother Lady Ashtear. It is the only shard that remained when the Masamunë was reforged decades ago. And now may it grace forever the brows of the Lords of this land. Mayhap with this jewel may Guardia reclaim some of the wisdom and glory that was Zeal. This is my wish.”
“So be it, then,” Crono said, finally yielding himself to accept his long forgone title.
Together with all gathered, he stepped out of the command tent into the small clearing. Those present turned to see him.
Crono drew his greatsword from his side, and with it cut off his long flowing hair that fell below his shoulders, which he held to be a symbol of his youth and exile. Only back of his head did his locks flow. From that time onward he would be a king such as the old world held them that office to be: a servant of the people.
He gave the sword into Schala’s hands, for she was the eldest and wisest of those gathered. Taking up his sword, she held the blade before her. He stood gravely, and bowed his head before her.
“Lord Kronos? Is this a new golden age upon us, then?” Janus whispered to Serge beside him.
Schala now stood before Crono, her presence that of an ancient queen come alive out of legend. She held his sword before him, laid flat on both her hands in front of her. She spoke with a soft yet powerful voice, and none doubted her authority.
“Kronos of Guardia,” she said, using the old Hellenic form of his chosen name, “do you now swear before God to be ever the servant of this land and people of Guardia, upholding them with all your will and might even unto your last breath?”
Crono nodded.
“This I will swear to, gladly and willingly, and may God uphold me in this.”
She placed the hilt of the sword into his hands, and he held it fast to his
heart.
“Do you swear to keep justice in these lands? To aid the oppressed and poor, and to be a friend to the needy with all your means, never hoarding, but giving freely of the treasures accounted your throne, and hold your office only as steward of the High King? Finally, do you swear that this sword of your kingship will know no evil, but be a friend to all the righteous, undoing the plans of the evil?”
“These I swear to as well,” he answered at once.
“Then kneel, and receive that which is yours.”
He knelt and bowed his head before her. She took up the crown in her hands, and placed it atop head with majesty.
“Then let it be known to all that you, Kronos, shall be sovereign of these lands of Guardia, Lord of its free people, and Defender of its Faith.”
Into his free hand she placed the sceptre of the kings of Guardia. A rod white ivory, upon the top of which was the black dragon of Guardia, carven from jet.
“Now take this rod, and crown, the symbols of your office. I hereby name you Lord Frey, King Guardia XXXIV, king of this realm under God. Rise, Lord of Guardia.”
And so he did, to the cheers and praise of all his people.
“Hail, Lord of Guardia!” A knight cried out, and that call was echoed at once by the entire assembly.
Many joyous songs the minstrels sung that day, and much to the glory of their king, as was after remembered. But he restrained his modesty, and allowed the people to do was they would.
“Mered ar aenana, ter ar asant il es adea Guardia. Hail, Crono,” Schala whispered with a smile.
So it was that after fifteen long years of waiting, Guardia had a true king once again. And the rebirth of that fair land was at hand.Despite the name of the chapter, do not be fooled. IT IS NOT THE LAST CHAPTER. I just felt I needed to stress that. There are twenty-four chapters, and there is no way I would end a story on such a note as this; too much has yet to happen, and in my opinion, the best comes after this.
CHAPTER XVI
THE FINAL STROKE
The next day was clear, as was the following. It was certain that those defending the fortress were grateful for the break in the siege, but for those upon the ground it was a time of much preparation. Craftsmen laboured day and night for days; the blacksmiths likewise. Crono himself wandered about ceaselessly, shouting words that gave courage and strength to his people. They in turn praised him as much as any king was ever praised, and in those days they surnamed him the Magnificent; those more learned took to calling him Meredior, which signifies ‘the man of glory’ in the old tongue of Zeal (though none there were save Janus and Schala that knew the strange chance of this, for Meredior had been the very name that the first king of Zeal had taken for himself, more than twelve thousand years before.)
So it was that the fifth day came quickly. All too quickly for most. This was the day upon which the fate of the entire land would rest. If it was lost so, too, was Guardia.
And on this day Crono was arrayed in his full battle dress, such as Serge had never seen him; for Crono now wore armour truly befitting a king: to guard his body was a hauberk of silver rings over which was set a breastplate of gold inlaid steel. Upon his right and left shoulders were fastened pauldrons of silver and bronze, and gauntlets of embroidered leather were on his hands. Even his feet were shod in iron hemmed boots. Upon his head sat a magnificent helm crafted of silver and gold that appeared nearly as a crown itself. And at his side his matchless sword gleamed from a gold enwound scabbard that alone would have been a prince’s ransom. Indeed, he seemed now as both king and general of his people, lord and champion, titles he had been loath to accept until the past day.
“Today is the day of victory, Serge,” he said, fastening a kingly dagger to his side as Serge approached.
Serge shook his head, not trusting much to the truth of those words.
“Maybe. That, or some fey charge like the poets always write about. I’ve seen too many battles lost that seemed way more sure than this one is. I’m not sure what exactly to think of it.”
Crono leaned over so that only Serge heard, and said:
“What do you think, that I am a fool? Certainly I know that all too well. I was speaking out of hope rather than reason. For you speak truly: it may well be that our doom this day is defeat, and our only reward for our struggles and death will be to be remembered in the tales of some skald. And little comfort will they be to us, indeed. I do not fear my own death, nay, I would not account that a great loss. But, rather, if we lose the day, I mourn for the death of my land and the freedom of its people.”
“But if there’s something I’ve learned in all my adventures,” Serge answered, “it’s that nothing really disappears in this world, not good or evil. Not till the End, at any rate. Someday, somewhere, even if it’s a thousand years from now, there’ll be another country like Guardia. Remember the story you told me about how it was founded: a centurion of Rome sailed westward to be free. Even then, when the Romans ruled, a free and peaceful land was born. And if it could happen then, under Rome, it could happen during the age of Porre.”
Crono laughed at these words.
“Serge,” he said, “I knew you to be bright-eyed, but did not think you had such a joyful outlook on the world. What you say is true, most surely, but it is in my charge to ensure that Guardia does not fall, and endures as long as it may. I will take your words to heart, however, and remember: even though Guardia shall fall, it shall not be the end of virtue or goodness. That dark fate only Lavos brought about, and him we have destroyed for eternity.”
Serge glanced once more at the fine array in which Crono was dressed, so unlike to that which he had worn before. Upon the field it had been dull mail and the like, so that he looked to be no different than a petty king or captain; this, however, was armour far more glorious than any Serge had ever seen before. Crono saw his wonder, and laughing said:
“This is my true armour, such as I have not worn since Guardia fell. In the last battle upon the field I was a brigand, and did not count myself worthy to bear such trappings. But now I am King, Serge, and array myself accordingly.”
From the earth he bore up a mighty shield, emblazoned with the signs of both Guardia and of his house. A black dragon, the symbol of his land, was at the chief, above the emblem of his family: a sword, which was his, and the silver flower of Marle Blancheflor.
He nodded in the way of Serge.
“You should take some thought to armour yourself, Serge. I daresay your mail shirt will hardly be of use today.”
Crono cast his hand in Schala’s direction, who was some way off in the way from which Serge had come. Surely Serge had wandered past without thinking it to be her. Even now he hardly knew her. For she was dressed, as Crono, in full battle-array of mail and steel, gilded and etched with elaborate designs traditional of Guardia. From beneath a helmet of silver her long golden hair flowed free as ever, and a bronze breastplate was fastened across a coat of fine mail rings that fell down nearly to her knees. Draped across her back she wore her flowing azure cape that caught even the slightest of winds. Upon her wrists were vambraces, her hands were gloved, and upon her feet were leather war-boots. Even her legs bore greaves. And her weaponry was even more warlike: both dagger and short-sword sat low at her sides, and a third greater sword with a broad blade lay in a scabbard across her back. Crono continued, to Serge’s turned back: “An assault on a gate is not to be taken lightly by any measure. We shall be in the open field, overlooked by the battlements, and I do not care to trust to chance alone.”
And so Crono’s final strategy was set. The two score of siege weapons, the ballistae and trebuchets and the like, were wheeled, through much labour, to before the front gate, though left well out of bow or gunshot. These all were to be a great diversion, to draw the eyes of the defender to the gate, rather than to where Janus would work his secret spells. And how could it fail? The entire army, strengthened to seven thousand now as new warrior-peasants flocked in from the countryside, would stand at the gate as well: a great bait that the enemy need surely take.
In truth, however, none but the captains knew of this plan. Spies were a fear, and the strategy would fail utterly if any wind of it was caught by the enemy. Crono thus trusted to the speed with which he could march his army about the castle to the breach that Janus would make.
And so it began.
The first assault was with the siege weapons. Rocks were hurled and great arrows fired, and all the while Crono looked keenly upon the battlements in hope. Yet, though the missiles they fired shattered stone and, on occasion, slew a defender, the eyes of the enemy remained yet fast upon all sides. To his far right, in the woods at the eastern edge of the castle, Crono new that Janus waited with no less sharp an eye.
But for all the fury of their weapons, the defenders would not cease their vigilance. Their captain was certainly wise, and it was a great fear to Crono that they would never succeed in drawing the attention of their foes solely to the gate. And so he lifted high his hand, and gave the cry that they were to advance full upon the fortress, to the very gate.
And at this the captains, taking up the same cry, led forward their companies in the assault. It was a most impressive charge, moreover, for the full count of the army was at least seven thousands, and they filled the entire of the approach before the fortress. The archers and riflemen that held post above the gate and upon the near battlements struck at once, and all through the ranks many brave men fell. But there were too few to stem the onslaught, and with near undiminished force the soldiers gained the gate.
And this then succeeded. The gate was shaken, and the defenders quaked in sudden fear. What men there were ringing the battlements all made haste for the forward defence, and their vigilance was broken. As swift as a runner off the mark upon hearing the starting shot, Janus rushed forward across the field. There being none to espy him, he came unharmed to the walls, and laughed grimly to himself at the foolishness of his enemies. Now they would see the power of the one they faced, and fear the might of Janus the magician.
He knelt beside the great wall, his eyes transfixed unerringly upon the stone.
“Fall now, become dust and crumble,” he whispered, his will working against the strength binding the stone.
Inë es aichos paraia il nemoth Jeriko
Ios wed fala
Ientad lom es methoset chelema ema amerad valparaia imo,
Inë es paraia il meredet Ilium eli nemoth dachai
Nechamad ost sol ost uth läishad mel
Ientad lom es rotha il es tera ar nerusa es Danaoio
Ient ine es fala il aichos Ilium
Chedal elth nimuret fala ar aichios ost tim tor sai
Inë es paraia il methoset Tel-Jebus lom es Shinarlim.
Inë es fala il Astrad lom es aichosith il Selevroth.
Crumble, and be dust.
And even as he finished it was so. Spell-bound in command to such mighty words, the stones shattered as though they were stricken glass. From the topmost battlement to the very foundations a mighty fissure wound its way, and all the walls about crumbled to pieces, flying apart in a storm of dust and stone.
Janus stepped backward, his dark eyes in joy over his success. His power was mighty, indeed. From the walls astonished cries rang, calling all men to the alarm. Soldiers ran about, some readying arrows, and others firing aimlessly at the ground, in wonder over what had chanced. Not one could believe that a lone sorcerer had taken down the walls that they had thought immortal. Janus laughed, seeing their fear, and revelled in his power.
And now the battle at the gate was abandoned. With both speed and zeal that drove terror into the hearts of the defenders, the host of the army, some seven thousand men on foot, was set upon the breach. Some few fell to arrows in the march, but the dismay of the defenders was such that the toll was less than it could have been. And then it was set: the army of Guardia was arrayed before the breach. It was a great rally, and the spears of Guardia were like a forest growing from amidst a field of shields.
For their part those that held the fortress were still distressed, though regaining their wits even as the armies of their foes reformed themselves. They knew that if they could not hold the breach, all would be lost, and so every man that was able to fight was sped there. Those that bore guns readied their flint and powder, preparing the first shot and making certain that those that followed would be swift and deadly. The bowmen, such as they were (for there were not many here in the fortress, most having been slain in the battle on the fields), strung the sinew fast on the wood, and stood ready with a single arrow upon the string. The mercenary swordsmen and axemen brandished about their blades and shook their shields, in practice for the affray that was sure to follow the first exchange of arrows and shot. And, finally, those that had any skill in sorcery, whether in healing or in war, held the back line, preparing to make their foemen pay a dear price if they came so far. It was a remarkable order, masterfully arrayed to throw back whatever assault might occur, and Crono, had he known it, would not have been much astonished to know that it was the captain of the Imperial Guard garrison there, Norris himself, who had commanded it. Or, rather, it was he who commanded the entire defence of the castle on behalf of his empire; the general had been slain, and he alone yet lived of the military commanders that had embarked upon the crushing of the rebellion, for the lives of the other captains had ended upon the field days before. Indeed, though the defence of the fortress had seemed insurmountable to those that sought to take it, it was mostly a play, for those that held it were ill-supplied and despairing. Had it not been for Norris and his steadfast legion, it might well have been that the fortress would have surrendered itself willingly long before. But Norris was a masterful man and stern captain, to whom men would listen and entrust their lives; he had ordered a stout defence upon the walls day and night, and had spared no shot in making it seem as though all was well with those holding it. All of this Crono did not know, but even had he, it was unlikely that his course would have been greatly altered.
But Norris was clever. Though in numbers, and through virtue of the fortress he held, he had enough force of arms so that the battle could swing to victory or loss, he knew his enemies perceived that he had far more strength than he in truth had. And so it struck him to play this to its fullest, and perhaps through fear and dismay cause them to abandon the siege. To this end he mounted the highest of the eastern battlements, and cried down at the army:
“I appeal to your reason, brigand Crono. Lay down your arms, and sue for the mercy of Porre. Enemy though you be, I swear by God I shall spare your life if you surrender yourself with sword undrawn.”
This all he said with a stern resolution to his voice, though his heart misgave him, and he feared that Crono would not be taken by this bait.
“Say, Norris!” Crono cried back in return. “It is you, is it not? Look upon my array, and mark me well: I am no longer a brigand. See my sword, and know that a king reigns in Guardia again! You give me terms for mercy? The brigand would not have taken them, how much less can the king. I, too, offer you mercy: the same that you would offer me. But if you reject these, then must this day be decided in blood.”
“Lord Crono, then,” Norris cried in return. “You say that you cannot by reason of your kingship accept my mercy. Then know that I, too, cannot accept yours, through reason of my oath-bound loyalty to my empire. So this day will indeed be decided by blood. Let then justice be judge!”
And as he said this he left the battlements, and for a moment all was silence in both ranks. But only for a moment. For with a sharp cry the front line of the army of Guardia pressed forward their assault, and as they marched the front line held their shields firm in front; their spears they held before them. A phalanx even as Alexander of Macedonia had marched with, as some few knew, and it was a good counsel. Or, rather, should have been against an army such as theirs was. But Porre was not as the ancient armies were, and as soon as they began the march, all the front line of the archers and musketeers fired their first volley. Now, the shields were strong, of many layered ox-hide and wood, and the arrows stuck fast to them and were halted; but the shot from the muskets was dire, and most often splintered through both hide and wood, and deep into the man behind. Five score of men fell in the first volley; with the phalanx broken, twice that many in the second. One might have guessed that two hundred might have been slain in the third, but it never came. Though the archers were swift and their arrows came like sleet, the musketeers were slow to load new shot and, before their third was prepared, the first of their foes had leaped into the fortress.
And so the battle began in full. The archers that had no other weapons other than their bows ran to the battlements where they could shoot in safety, and those that held swords drew them. Axes were swung, armour was cleft, and shields were shattered. Into the fray Crono himself leaped, arrayed in gold like a ray of sunlight, his sword shining and eager for blood in his hand. Behind followed Serge, clad in his dull steel mail, but with the Masamunë flaming in his grip. Together the two pushed back all defence from the breach, and the enemy broke and ran.
Yet still Norris looked for victory, and he was cunning. From many windows, from the belfry of the cathedral and a score of other high places, archers that he had kept prepared now took aim. A storm of deadly darts went flying upon the king and his host. So now the tide began to turn for Porre, and those that had begun to flee turned and held fast defence in the outer keep, before the inner gate.
“Look to the archers!” Crono cried desperately, swinging about his bloodied blade, “Bowmen, take aim at the towers!”
But Crono had few bowmen with him. Cursing his ill fortune he gathered his strength for sorcery, and raised his sword. A great vein of lightning swept to him from the sky, and at once he sent it swiftly to the belfry. The archer who had stood there fell with an unheard cry as the noisome sorcery lanced through his heart. Twice more Crono did this, and two more fell. But it was a perilous thing, for his mind needed be on many things at once: with his left hand he parried those who attacked, and with his right he fought with both sword and magic. Serge, nearby, was struggling, and could not aid with his own spells: caught in a corner by several foes, he was fighting merely to live.
And then it was that Janus and Schala leaped in through the breach.
At their coming the tide at once left from Porre, and returned to Guardia. The archers fell like flies from their high posts to the twain’s terrible sigaldry. Soon not one remained to harry the armies and, though they had taken a dire toll, the king’s men now saw that the host that held the fortress was not so great as they had thought it to be. Heartened by this, they felt victory was near.
Or, so it appeared. Norris was no fool, and ever held another trick ready to counter the turning fortunes. Now he loosed his magicians he had kept at bay, and these came as a storm upon the Guardian armies. This new assault struck fear into every heart, and even Crono was aghast at the sudden onslaught, made all the more dreadful by the nearness that victory had seemed only a moment before. Here came the Swart Elves with their cunning spells, even as they had so lately in the field battle. But more terrible than these were the sorcerers of the Black Wind. Dark robed and bearing an array of steel armour and weapons, both swords and rifles, they were perilous foes. The first hail of magic was heralded with a storm of shot, and many a brave warrior perished at that moment, and many were wounded. Serge himself was nearly slain, for a sharp iron shot rang off his steel helm; had he not worn it, as had been his earlier wont, he would have surely been dead at once. Janus and Crono were both struck, though neither mortally so: Janus fell to a knee as a bullet that pierced his greaves shattered his bone, and an unlucky spell burned like hellfire through his breastplate; Crono tore his helm free from his head even as it writhed and burned to ashes under some evil curse.
“We shall die here,” Janus said with a fey-touched laugh, and he fought to rise. He stood, but found that much of his strength had left him. But even at that moment he looked up to the sky with narrowing eyes, and cried: “And yet, perhaps that hour is not yet upon us!”
Crono turned about and looked at him with wonder, for it seemed that foresight had come upon Janus. Even the enemy that were now nearing their victory paused for a certain moment at his chill voice.
“What do you say?” Schala asked of her brother, leaping at once to his side.
“Listen, and hear!” Janus said. “The north-wind brings news upon its wings!”
And even at that time, when hope was growing dim, a horn sang. It came from the north, though its ringing note was ever rising, as if it were nearing.
At once Crono knew what this portended.
“The riders from the north!” he cried. “Four hundred to our aid! Guardia shall victor this day yet!”
And with that jubilant cry he rushed forward, heedless of the foe’s sorcery. Seeing this dauntless charge, all the warriors of Guardia that stood near to him, and both Schala and Serge, followed behind. The sorcerers of Porre were holding the last gate to the inner keep and tower, and stood in front so that none could near it. But hearing the sudden horn, and fearing the onslaught of the king, they faltered, even the mighty among them. With haste they built a wall of enchantment, and opened the great gate so as to retreat to the final defence. But even as they did so Norris, in wrath and despair, called to them from the keep wall:
“Halt! Do not run! You are handing them victory!”
But they would not stop, for the fear of defeat was in their hearts, and not even the fiery and commanding words of their captain would sway them. Yet had they known all of what was chancing, it would certainly have been otherwise.
The gate was open, and the last of the sorcerers had found their way inside. With haste they pushed at the doors to shut them, but were too late in doing so. Their spells had been quick and weak and, many though they were, the wizardry of Janus was far stronger. The unseen walls had shattered at his call, and with this last thing he retired of the battle, needing all his strength to heal his own hurts. He swept his cape about and, with a faltering pace, left through the breach, there being none to bar his way of escape.
As he went through, however, Sigurd passed inward, drawn sword in hand.
“Alas, the battle is near over!” he cried to Janus as he saw the dead that littered the courtyard, and marked that there were none save at the inner gate who yet fought.
“Yet some swordwork at least, Sigurd,” Janus said. “Go now! You are needed. You, and the riders you have brought.”
At that moment Crono, as he lead the endeavour to take the gateway, looked backward. He saw Sigurd and Janus speak a space; then Janus laughed greatly, and Sigurd ran forward to join his father.
“Sigurd, you come in the very nick of time!” Crono said to his son, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Lord Janus has been sorely wounded, and we are in need of your sorcery and following company. Your riders, are they swift behind you?”
But Sigurd shook his head.
“No, father, there are no riders. The horn was mine alone. If any warriors were in the northern forests, they have surely perished.”
“Alas,” Crono cried, “and yet your horn could not have come at more apt a time! This may well turn the tide for the final time, and put victory into our hands. Come!”
And having said so he leaped forward of all the warriors, and led the assault into the inner halls.
Surely the battle was won then, but the sorcerers believed that only death could be their fate, and the Black Wind would not willingly surrender, even to save their own lives. They fought to the last and least, and so hardy was their defence that it was not without the price of blood was every hall and stair won for Guardia. Yet in the end the king had the mastery, and at last only Norris, and two of his guard, remained alive in the final chamber. Then Crono stepped forward, saying:
“Much blood is on your account today, Captain Norris. Had you yielded the fortress, many lives would have been spared from death.”
But Norris shook his head.
“Yet I may say a like thing of you. You, too, could have surrendered, yet did not. The guilt of blood belongs to us both.”
With a nod Crono affirmed it, but added:
“And yet small joy will that dividing of guilt bring you, for the victory is mine, and not yours. Look at this tale: you, who for so long yearned to capture me, are now my prisoner.”
But Norris shook his head.
“I will be no prisoner. Set me free, or I slay me. I will have nothing else.”
Crono laughed grimly, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword.
“Then death will be your fate,” he said, and drew out the blade. “What of your two captains? Will they share in it?”
The one laughed grimly, saying:
“So you think, northman, that the courage of the south is weak? We are of like mind, and will not betray our duty.”
And the other nodded in silent agreement.
Crono stepped forward, but at the very moment in which he was to strike off Norris’ head, Serge came forward into the room, bloodied and spent. For he had ever been at the thickest and worst of the fighting, and that had taken him to the deep dungeons and the last defence.
“No, don’t kill him. Set him free,” he said wearily, leaning greatly on the haft of the Masamunë.
Crono sighed shortly, but withdrew his blade for the moment.
“Serge, why? Three more only need die; with their blood will Guardia be cleansed of the rule of Porre. You may wish me to free him, but remember that he is enemy to my people, and a foe to us all. He serves Porre.”
Serge nodded. Indeed, he understood that well enough. But he even so remembered a bygone time in which Norris had been a dear friend.
“Yes, I know he’s our enemy. I’m not going to fool myself about that, Crono. But I know a thing or two about enemies and friends, too, and about well-meaning people caught on the wrong side. Norris is a better man than you think. And I’ll have you remember that mercy’s considered the trait of a good king. And that’s what you are now that we’ve won this battle. It’s your choice, but I’d ask you not to kill him, if not for his sake then for mine.”
As he said this, Norris looked in wonder at Serge.
“You, child? You are the same that I dismissed in Termina months ago. Did you then play my mercy against me?”
Serge shook his head.
“No, Norris, I didn’t,” Serge answered, somewhat pained by Norris’ harshly spoken words. “But it all made sense to me later. I was once something of a hero, and still am, I suppose. Porre is an enemy to the people, here and even at home, and I had to fight them. Someday maybe you’ll see this,” and Serge nearly added ‘again’, for it had been noble anger at the cruelty of his empire that had, in some forgotten time, made Norris break his oath-bond and join Serge; here there would be no such thing, Serge knew, but only hoped that their parting, which would in likelihood be final, could be without enmity. “But just believe me when I say that I’m not your enemy, here.”
“You counsel your companion to free me,” Norris replied. “Through this I suppose you can have some claim of friendship, though I do not know why you should care for my fate. So now, Crono, what shall it be? Do you release me, or do I die?”
Crono paused for a moment, then he bore up his sword again as if to deliver the deathstroke. But even as he did so he relented, and dropped the point to the earth, saying:
“Marle, forgive me,” he muttered, then raising his voice to Norris said: “You are my enemy, captain. You always will be that. But on the behest of Serge, who followed me most graciously upon my now fulfilled quest, I will free you. If ever we meet again, it will be as enemies, but here, at least, we may part in truce.”
Crono bowed a formal farewell, and spoke a word to the nearest of his guard. Norris gave a sharp salute after the fashion of the Empire and, without a further word, he and his two remaining soldiers departed from the room and fortress. That day they left on the homeward road, leaving Guardia and defeat behind.
But when Norris had left, Crono turned to Serge and said:
“But perhaps it is not solely for you that I allowed him to go. A brigand needs be merciless, but a good king thrives on mercy. Had I not granted him that, I should have shamed myself, and Guardia through it. I thank you for reminding me of this. And now, we mourn; but after, we celebrate victory. Come!”
Then Crono went to the highest tower, and cried aloud:
“Hail Guardia, that arises from the ashes! Hail the black dragon!”
Then, even as the sun flashed its last golden rays upon the towers of the fortress the banner of the chimera was torn down, and the gleaming standard of the black dragon was raised high, its embossed emblem blowing gloriously in the chill twilight wind for the first in fifteen years.
I must apologies for the somewhat badly used allusion to Alexander’s phalanx. It wasn’t until after this final draft was complete that I realized that his formation differed somewhat than that which was standard practice in classical Greece. Most of the time they just marched with their spears like that, but Alexander perfected the practice, making each successive line have their spears higher up, so that as one fell the other would take its place. He also used a nifty envelopment rear-attack maneuver by advancing one powerful flant ahead of the rest, allowing it to break through and come in behind. But anyway, it’s there now, though I thought it best to point out that it was a bit of an ignorant mistake on my part.
Oh, and once again, the story is most certainly not over. The greatest battles and all are yet to come, and this has mostly set the stage for what happens in the last 1/3.
(Removed due to accidental double post)
You seem to have posted the same chapter twice. Problems with the upload? ^^;
Still going well. I didn’t see the twist of Sigurd’s origins coming.
Yes, it was an accidental thing; I did have quite a bit of trouble uploading, actually. My internet as a whole has had trouble with uploading, lately, even adding attachments to emails has been difficult. Thanks for pointing it out, I’ve changed it, now.
Anyway… regarding Sigurd… he turned out relatively alright then? I was somewhat paranoid for a while about him being a MS.
Well, this first 2/3 of the story has dealt mainly with Guardia and its rebirth in despite of Porre. Now, there have been a few, likely unnoticed, foreshadowings of darker things than the Empire itself stirring, namely in Toma’s tale from the east, Serge’s dream, and the words Serge hears in prophecy at Stoneshield (which, though they have meaning, I kept intentionally untranslated.) That all will be made manifest soon. There is a chapter of respite first, though. Ah… I’ll post it tomorrow or the day after, seeing how things go. I’d do it now, but it’s high time I got to bed, seeing as I do have class tomorrow.
Alrighty, here’s the chapter of respite I spoke of. The end of the chapter seems very like to the end of a book, but it’s not. Oh, and the beginning of this chapter, I know, sounds like the one part in Return of the King where they are at Meduseld celebrating the victory; in fact, it sounded even more like it before I changed it to make it sound a little different. Now, I would have accounted that to subconciously thinking of that scene when I wrote this (as has happened to me before!), save for this: I wrote it before Return of the King came out, and there is no such scene in the books. So it is a humerous chance that they are similar, but nothing more.
CHAPTER XVII
A WINTER’S SOLACE
It was many long days before the fortress was cleared of the dead, and even thereafter much remained to be done ere the castle was fit to withstand siege again. Through great labour the breach was repaired, in the chance that the armies of Porre would soon try at a swift counterstrike. But that was only a dim fear: those of that host that remained in Guardia were weak and in flight, and to march a new number into the north from their homeland would continue the war well into the winter, and they were not foolish enough to do such a thing. Whatever might chance, it was near certain that the time of battle had passed, at the very least for the winter. And so, once all that great work was complete, the victorious people of Guardia thronged the castle to celebrate their victories.
In the throne-room itself Crono held a great feast for those who had been his captains. There tales were told, by the loremasters and those who had skill in the making of songs, of both of this past battle and of those heroes and wars of legend that warriors oft think back upon: of the great fleets and hosts of the Achaians as they sought the downfall of Troy; of the wanderings of both famed Odysseus and Aeneas in the years that came after; of the deeds of Herakles and Perseus and many other heroes of old; of Gilgamesh, the favoured of Ishtar; and even some of the myths and wars of old Zeal, such as were remembered. Many beyond count they told, and there the minstrels sung of the high deeds of their own king, placing his name aside the great heroes of old, even beside the like of mighty Agamemnon. Much joy was there as they drank to the peace and glory that would assuredly be Guardia’s again, and the hall was rife with laughter and song, such as it had not heard in many a long year. But at last, as the sun grew dim in the eastern sky, Crono called for silence, and he stood to speak:
“So is victory accomplished, and Guardia reborn,” he said. “All that stand here are blessed with the honour of having aided in this, but twofold is the honour of those that have died for it.”
A great murmur of assent ran through the hall.
“Let the fallen have their peace and glory alike!” Crono cried, drawing a drink from his chalice.
The captains did likewise, a few murmuring echoes of his words saluting those who had perished.
Crono looked about the room, with mournful eyes.
“Let the perished not be forgotten, and let their memory persist in honour: Sir Hadrian, a terror to his foes; Medesior, lord of spearmen, who stood against the sorcerers of the Black Wind with dauntless courage; captains and mean warriors alike, a thousand-fold host of slain. And lastly the Lady of the White Flower, Marle Blancheflor, Queen of Guardia!”
“Hail! the fallen queen of our land!” a noble cried, raising his goblet high.
Crono drained the last of his chalice. Then, having done so, he drew his sword.
“And now must we give honour to those yet living, so that the knighthood of Guardia will not fade, but be fairer and mightier than even it was in past years!”
He strode forward, down from the stone dais. Standing at the foot of his throne he called out:
“Lord Janus, Magus of old, come forward!”
Janus rose from his mead-bench, with a sweep of his cloak coming to before Crono like some hero-vassal of old before a legendary king. Or maybe it was indeed so, for Janus was with certainty a hero, and the deeds performed by the hands of the king spoken of as legend.
“My friend, as an ancient sorcerer you were once the most bitter enemy of my land. But now are you her dearest of friends. You have shown faithfulness to me in my need, and done services of valour becoming a knight. And so I gladly name you a knight of Guardia: you shall be Lord Janus the Night-Raven. Elth aith asant rosfaiao, my friend.”
And he placed the broad edge of the sword upon Janus’ shoulder, signifying that what he had said was a king’s law.
Janus bowed, and with a flourish of his cape returned to the place from where he had come.
“Lady Schala, princess of Zeal,” Crono said once Janus had left.
She rose with fay-like grace and stepped lightly to before Crono. With the war now come to completion, she had cast aside her battle-raiment, and was rather dressed in lightly gilded samite, and through the youth of her fair face, and the splendour of her array, she appeared even as she was: the princess of a high ancient realm.
Her golden hair shimmered as she rose, for it was spun with silver-thread, as was the ancient custom of Zeal.
“My friend,” Crono said, “about whom the great tales have all been spun. Aged and youthful alike, you have borne many titles grander than this, and a ladyship in such a small realm is but a trifle to a child of Zeal, but may it serve as a token of my thanks for all that you have done. I name you Lady Schala, Mistress of Enchantment.”
With a smile she bowed before him as he placed the sword upon her shoulder.
“To me it is greater than all others,” she said and, rising, bowed a second time, and returned to her seat at her mead-table, beside Serge and her brother.
“And last of the three that came with me from the west, Serge of El Nido.”
Serge stood, treading with slow paces; all the eyes of the captains and great warriors were upon him at this moment, and never had he revelled in the praise of many. Arriving at the throne he knelt, and felt the weight of the sword upon his shoulder, as the king spoke:
“For all the many things you have done for me, my friend: in Guardia you shall be remembered as Lord Serge Masamunë, in honour of the holy sword that you bear.”
Then Serge rose, and rejoined the others. It felt more than passing strange to him, to be granted such high favour for his effort. Never before had his deeds been so honoured; they were, for the most part, forgotten, so that to the memory of most they were as though they had never been. Yet now he was called a lord in an ancient land, and befriended by a king. But such were the odd chances that befell in life, and he shrugged it aside as he came to sit beside Schala and Janus, joining them in their mead.
That eve were many other honours bestowed as well, so that the soldiery and knights of Guardia were as many, if not as strong, as they had been in past days. And, last of all, Crono brought forth his son, and presented him to the archbishop at the cathedral. There, in the presence of all the nobility, he was blessed as both a true Knight and Prince of the realms of Guardia, and was charged with all the duties becoming of these titles. For his valour in the war he was given the name Sigurd Taksdios (That is, Foebane; for at needs a prince must have a fearsome title, and what less could be thought of one that came of the lineage of not one, but two, heroes?) The people celebrated his deeds greatly, for they felt him to be, as his father before, one come from their own ranks.
And so things turned out well in the end according to Crono’s wishes, save only that his dear wife had not lived to celebrate victory at his side. But he was consoled by the company of his son who reminded him not a little of Marle, with shimmering golden hair.
As for the others...
Certainly Janus and Schala were their usual selves. Neither war nor anything else had changed them. Janus haunted the lower halls of the castle so often and so furtively that more than once a terrified page would swear he had seen a ghost or wraith. He would take to speaking with the older and wiser loremasters when his mood was softer, or stride around noisomely in his steel-shod boots, muttering curses, if it wasn’t. Schala, for her part, spent her days reading through the many histories contained in the vast libraries, and scribing her own accounts of ancient times, learning what she did not yet know, amending errors, and writing much that lived now only in her ancient memory. Often when Serge, on his way to have solace upon the battlements, walked through the great library hall he would see her there, head bowed over quill, in profound thought. Yet she never failed to notice him passing, and always glanced up to greet him merrily.
Upon one of these days he took thought to ask her of what she so zealously wrote. She looked up at his approach, smiling as she ever did these days following the war.
“Ah, Serge,” she said. “The battlements grown too chill for you, are they?”
“Maybe,” he answered, though not having known before that his own wandering about the castle walls had been so noticed. “Writing our stories down?”
“Our own tales? Partly,” she replied with a faint laugh. “I suppose those need telling also, though I am not nearly so far. I am now scribing the history of our world and race, for there is none such as rightly tells it. I have spoken of our earliest years, and have now come only to Zeal; but the tales of that land will alone fill many a book.”
And at that Serge wondered, for certainly he had heard tell of great Zeal, not least in Schala’s ballads during the war. But those were skald-songs, and he now wondered what the truth of that lands was, that Schala wrote of in so scholarly a manner.
“Zeal,” he said. “I’ve heard its legends, and I’ve heard you talk and sing about it. But really: what was it like? Your songs were nice and all, but in your own words, tell me of Zeal.”
She smiled.
“Ah, you do not care overmuch for them? Those songs were my words, lays written by me and my brother. So that we, and all people might remember Zeal.”
“I didn’t know you were a poet, too,” he said, having not seen her quite in that way before.
She smiled with a small nod. Closing her eyes, she took up a simple verse she had sung weeks before:
Hear! Thou skalds of long-passed fame!
That sing of shining spear and sword
Once held by heroes great and bold
Of ancient fields and godlike men,
Who boast of many valour-deeds.
Yet ever still in fate enmeshed
And overcome with doom to die
And take the road to Hades’ hall:
Cross Styx and into shadowed-lands.
Most surely all of this you know
But have you heard of glory old
Sung ere thy ancient tales were set?
Ere heroes sires did firstly tread
Upon the fields of this green earth.
See all the Argive’s fabled hosts
Those men of passéd legend-fame:
King counsellor, lord Nestor old
Diomedes, who wounded Love
Odysseus, resourceful, see.
There stood the son of Telamon
And the child of king Atreus
Lo! as Ares in his dread wrath
Is the scion of Peleus.
Yet, nay!
Not all of these in gold-arrayed
Did over-splendour my great lords!
Ah! Ye bards! Of Zeal I sing!
The fairest land, upon the airs
Like cloud of silver-silk…
But at this she paused and, smiling, reopened her eyes.
“Ah, but you wished to hear of Zeal without the flowery of poetry, was that it?”
He nodded.
“What was Zeal like,” she said to herself and leaned backward in her seat, closing her eyes in solemn thought.
“It was debauched and depraved, arrogant and selfish,” she said, shaking her head with more than a little disdain. “Yes, that was Zeal the glorious.”
This perplexed Serge, for her words were none of praise, as they had been before.
“Then your songs about the glory and beauty of Zeal were lies?” he asked is surprise.
She opened her eyes once more, and cast a serious glance upon him.
“Lies, Serge?” she said, and laughed somewhat. “What do you expect of such things? They were lies only if you think such things to be pure truth. Know that those who write down songs of legends and history exaggerate much of which they tell. It is a common failing, or is rather simply the mode of such things, for few enjoy hearing tell of evils in the past, for it rarely bodes well for the future. It is true, Zeal was beautiful beyond words. And they were most certainly powerful, beyond the measure of all other mortals, and yes, even wise after a fashion. But the heart of Zeal had ever been its rulers: its kings and queens alike in the varying years, through countless generations from the very reign of Ter-Meredior himself. And my mother was corrupt, drawing down the people, for the most part, into this. She looked upon the power of Lavos, and coveted it. She ordered the forging of a great device whereby this might be accomplished, and standing before it told her people: ‘See, here is your god that has saved you. Worship it.’” Schala paused as she said this, and was quiet for a space. At length she said: “My memory of that day is clear and terrible, for it was upon it, at first, that I felt a nearing doom. That day marked the chief step away from glory, and into our destruction: the day we held the things of our making, and we ourselves, as gods. But it was not the fault of the day. No, that was only what was made manifest, a mirror to our own hearts. For our might was tainted by supreme arrogance, and we believed that our sorcerous powers made us worthier of life than those who dwelt yet upon the earth, to whom magic was yet a mystery. And from this arrogance came an ambition. The old ambition to conquer death, and never know the frailty and weakness of old age. They deemed that even this was their destiny.” And she tightened her fists in wrathful memory as she said it. “That accursed dream of immortality! They believed themselves so mighty that it might be in their grasp. But they fell in reaching for it, fell upon the sword of their own ambition. That glory they attempted to gain they found all too late is not for mortal hearts to desire. And so perished Zeal, of all the kingdoms of Men most glorious and wonderful.”
“I pity the people of Zeal. That they weren’t content with the life that they were given,” Serge said upon hearing this; he himself had, in his bygone quests, been tempted many a time by promises of power and glory, but had always held himself content and unshaken by such things. Yet in having felt such tainted offers, he could quite easily understand how that people had succumbed to ambition.
“So you should,” Schala replied sadly, “and so should all learn the lesson of the folly of Zeal. One should not seek a power greater than what is granted unto them. Ai, so much learning those of my land possessed, yet a simple wisdom they lacked: they did not know the truest desire of their own hearts. For ever it is peace, and the joy that proceeds from it, that our mortal souls yearn for.”
“They were blinded by their ambition and power,” Serge said knowingly. “That was what betrayed them.”
“Precisely! Our flawed mortality ever taints that which shines brightest. Zeal may have lasted for many thousand years yet. Perhaps even unto this very day. But the learning that may have come from its minds is now lost in the questions of what might have been.”
“And we forgot it so quickly,” Serge muttered. “Everything they did, built, and lived for. Your people wouldn’t have been all too happy to know that. It fell in one night and was forgotten about.”
“Ten thousand years is hardly a short span of years, Serge, by any reckoning, but it has not been wholly forgotten. People of after years have certainly made tales of its glory and splendour, and of its fall, but you know it in those stories by other names. For who ever knew the truth of Zeal? Those that outlived its ruin - yes, there were some few - faded swiftly, and the memory of their kingdom with them. And so it became but a legend: a seed of truth mixed with fable. But did not wise Plato himself speak of it? He named it Atlantis, a mythical island of great learning and beauty that was beset by a great disaster upon the eve of a great venture; struck down by the gods for the sins of arrogance and debauchery even at the pinnacle of its glory. Surely Zeal was the Atlantis that was spoken of. And so, too, were we the mythical Tower of Babel that is ever the symbol of the folly of pride. No tower did we build but that of our own ambition, but truly in thought we sought to reach God, to be as Him, and gain immortality. What fools we were! Those that lived were scattered to the ends of the earth. But nothing so great is ever wholly forgotten, for our legend lingers still as an echo of a myth. Yet it is a fading memory, only.”
She looked to high ceiling with a sad-touched smile, thinking back to ancient days passed above the clouds.
“Ah, Zeal! How clearly I yet remember your splendour and magnificence! Ai, es mered malecho! Serge, nothing seems magnificent to one who has once seen those towers. And the armies of my land, one hundred thousand strong, against which no foe could stand. Not merely dauntless and valiant, but so wondrous and beautiful to look upon: our spears, whose heads were cut of flawless diamond, shimmering as fields of crystal in the midday light; our swords, woven with enchantment which no malice could undo, shining pale in the twilight as the sun crept below our horizons; and the golden helms and gilded coats of mail of even the lowliest soldier. When the war trumpets of Zeal sounded aloud it was a symbol of fear to all the earthbound kingdoms, and even the mightiest land trembled at the very rumour of our coming. For to them it seemed as if the very heavens broke open with thunder, and gleaming legions of angels descended; so magnificent were the hosts of old Zeal. And so by the time of my life there was no enemy to Zeal in all the western world. Beneath our heel we held subject all the lands of the west. Some might say with stern yet benevolent lordship, while others would name us tyrants, oppressing all beneath us. For what I knew, we were some of both. At times our great masters of lore would come among the people yet lacking any strength of sorcery, and teach them what they could of our knowledge. But as the years lengthened we became cold and stern, and tired of the life granted us. It was not our beauty that diminished; that grew till the very hour of our destruction. But on a time the forums of Zeal were thronged with multitudes, not only of Zeal but also of the earth. It was partly by their strength that the Arythfala, the Pillars of the Stars, the beautiful towers of the citadel, were raised. However in the last days to which I belonged no earthbound could so much as peer up at the Kingdom without fear of punishment. And this was at the command of my mother the Queen, and few dared oppose her in word or action. Her three counsellors, the great Masters, did so, and thus they were banished to far flung and woeful prisons. I also worked against her evil, though being but a child did so more in secret, and through an indirect hand. I alone of all the high Zeal court yet visited the lands beneath, to bring my learning to those unenlightened that lay under our rule. But I did far too little, and was blind to how far things had come, because for all our might, we crumbled at our own hands. Our grandest legions could not forestall the enemy that we became unto ourselves. And in my weakness I did not, I could not, oppose this nearing end.”
She sighed.
“Perhaps even the magic itself we so boldly used with ease was a folly in and of itself.”
“But there’s no evil in magic,” Serge said. “It’s how someone uses it that makes it good or evil.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I doubt there being much truth in that. Serge, magic is a power. And know that power will corrupt those who wield it, unless they are of surpassing valour and nobility of mind. None I have yet seen would deny a gift of might, and not abuse it to their own glory. Can any man use such a power as magic with only the most pure of intent, and not give thought to one’s own honour and glory? I do not think so. At times I even begin to wonder if magic itself was never intended to fall into human hands, and that we happened upon it by ill chance: that it was only by some sin that it came as a curse upon us. For it seems too great for our frail minds to master, and of all the end-fruits most seem evil, with magic twisting us in mockery to evil. What has it availed us but sorrow and hardship? We war with it, and slay with it in meaningless wrath, using it with little thought or care, and scarcely ever for art or beauty. Look what has come upon us: death and war; ruin to beauty and to life.”
“Those things would be even without magic,” the voice of Janus said as he wandered out of the far shadows of the room, his steel shod boots ringing loud on the stone floor.
“For magic and sorcery is not the cause of our evils. Rather, it may only be in some measure the judgement visited upon us.”
“Zeal fell because of it,” she replied, resting her hand absently on her writing. “You of all need not read my account to know the tale of that folly.”
“Partly, my sister. It was because of what we sought to accomplish by it, and the manner in which we allowed it rule over our hearts. It, rather than we, became the master,” Janus said. “But so is it with all things: when the things we possess become the possessors, it is our downfall. Yet do not curse magic: there were many wonderful things, things of surpassing fairness, that came of it too. The legions of Zeal you spoke of so lately. I was not so young then that I do not remember those as well. The great display at the high winter festival: marching from the Autumn Gate to the Spring Gate like a serpent of gold.”
“And I remember a little brother so enamoured by their glorious parades that he eagerly told his sister that he wished to be one of the high captains when he grew to age,” Schala said.
Janus laughed.
“Did I truly? I do not wonder at that. I would have done so, I deem, had Zeal endured. I should have been captain of her legions in my turn, and all would have revered my commands. Janus: Field-Lord of Zeal.”
A faint smile touched his lips.
“One hundred thousand awaiting my words. Janus Valasant, at whose coming all enemies cower in fear.”
“And to this title you must promptly add ‘Janus the hot headed fool who thinks to much of himself,’” Schala replied. “Had Zeal endured, I should have been queen in my turn; if you lament the loss of such captainship, look only at what fate has wrested from me: the rule of the greatest kingdom the world has ever seen. Such things were not our destiny. And perhaps it was well, for if history is to be judge of your leadership, you would be found lacking.”
With a blaze of anger in his eyes he said:
“That was merely a means to my end. I have told you this many a time. History has vindicated me of fault, for my sole desire was not the ruin of Guardia, nor mastery and lordship of the lands, but to rise in power.”
“For vengeance,” she said wearily, plainly having heard the very words from him many times before.
“Yes, vengeance. For me, for the world, and for our fallen land. How else could I build my power to such strength with which I could challenge the Demon? I did as the Mystics had me do, and led them along their path so long as it suited my own designs. And did I not make good on my intent, sister? Did I not summon Lavos himself to my fortress to do battle with him?”
“Yes, as a fool, my brother, for surely you failed. By rights you should be dead now. For we all know that after that day the Mystic armies faltered, and their beloved Magus never returned.”
He glowered at her, saying:
“That fate is gone forever; I am not dead now, and so I did not die then. And even if that was once my destiny, fate had me die a noble death, for it was in saving the world that I perished.”
“Do not colour your mis-truths so lightly, Janus,” she said, and her voice was one of gentle, sisterly, reproach. “You cared nothing for the world, and your only desire was to pay due to your enemy the injustice it had dealt out upon you. There was no holy honour in your self-serving vengeance.”
“There are times when one must worry only about oneself, and dismiss the fate of others, if only to survive. Think you it an easy thing to cast pity from one’s heart, and to force oneself to dissemble all kind emotion and caring? To not weep tears at the death of friends, to make one’s lips laugh at cruelty and the drawing of blood, to perforce live a life of bloodlust and deal harshly, and even evilly, with those near? I walked those paths for so long, I can even now scarce see any other way to live. But I am not by nature evil: those things pained me deeper than words can tell, and I still bear remorse for every one of my misdeeds; I only justify myself through purpose and end. But am I not changed, now? Sister, why must you always deride me so? Can I do nothing with pure intent in your sight? Am I still the Sorcerer to your eyes?”
“I remind you of your place, Janus, and restrain your pride. But for me you would cease all caution. You are mighty, in some ways more so than I myself am, but lack the wariness that proceeds from wisdom. Take care, and learn this.”
For a moment it seemed to Serge that Janus would protest bitterly. But he did not. Nor did he glare in vehemence as he often did. Instead he lowered his eyes, as if in shame over the rebuke.
“Perhaps you speak truly. My heart cannot abandon its old pride, no matter how bitterly I struggle against it. Lavos, and my folly ridden vengeance, have left their marks deep, I am afraid.”
Serge said little more to Schala following this, and decided rather in favour of walking the battlements. The chill drafts of winter stung him keenly through his mantle, and a slight dust of newly fallen snow lay beneath his feat. But he did not care overmuch, for his thoughts were turned inward.
And these were thoughts of the past, of war, of peace and not least of his long forsaken home. Now that the war was ended he once again thought of it, far away cross the horizon though it lay. Certainly it would not be snowing there, nor would it be so bitterly cold. And at this thought, remembering the winter, warmer than even the Guardian summers, he shivered. He was not used to the north, not even after these many months. And the temperature lent a certain substance to his thoughts and mood. The drear sky, overcast with low sailing grey clouds, weighed in on him. He longed for the clear, unbroken blue sky of his native land. The disquiet in his heart had grown again, filling the void that the ended war had left.
“And here we come to one who is yearning for his home,” Crono said, for he had wandered up soundlessly beside Serge.
Serge nodded, rubbing his hands all the while so that they might be kept warm. Crono smiled, understanding the mood upon him.
“That I understand well, true friend.”
He swept the snow from nearest battlement, rested his hands on it, and cast his gaze out over the wide lands of Guardia that lay before them, strewn with a ghostly sheet of snowfall.
“Yes, I know how you must feel. I have been in exile for nearly half my life, and should still be, had not four of my truest friends aided me. I owe what I have now to you, Serge, and likewise do my people. You know that whatever you wish for is yours if it is mine to give. Stay how long you will, and take what you wish. But what do I say? You do not care for such things.”
Serge stepped up beside him, the chill air freezing his lungs with every breath.
“These lands aren’t where I belong.”
“All too true,” Crono affirmed with a nod. “One must live where one’s heart lies, else life tires. So you wish to return home now, is this your thought? I had thought it so.”
Serge nodded.
“Yes. By the sand beaches and palm trees are where I belong. And the sky’s so much more blue,” he said longingly, seeing the grey sky hang low above him.
Crono nodded.
“Let us not forget it is where the one you love resides.”
Serge glanced to Crono beside him, who smiled sadly.
“What’s that mean?”
“If you do not see that yourself, I will think you blind for all your musing. You miss her, Serge. You miss Leena greatly. Do I not know such things when I see them? I, too, was taken by love once, and am not blind to it in others; you may not see, perhaps, that I grant you. But we, the three of us, are your friends and comrades through battle and adventure, life and blood we may shed, but with her has always lain the greatest part of your heart. And to her you must return, for it will not allow you to remain apart at length without misgiving.”
And how truly had Crono guessed his feelings. That, even as he had said, he himself was well near unaware of.
“Yes, I miss her too. I’m not fooling myself about that. Even before this began, when I still had those dreams, when I thought I was going insane, she always listened to me, with compassion, no matter what bothered me. I guess I should have seen it for what it really was then, but didn’t. That was my blindness, and stupidity. All that was her love for me. And I loved her in return. Though I suppose I didn’t understand it like I should of until I left; maybe we always made pains to hide it from each other, and acted like mere friends. But no, it took being apart from her to show me what it really was; maybe that’s what I needed so that I could see it, but it makes me quite homesick at the moment.”
“As I said, home is where your heart lives. This,” he swept his hand about, “may be my home in name, but can never truly be so. Marle is perished, and so I always find heart-rest elusive.”
Serge sighed. His friend was still pained by her death, and merely hit it better nowadays.
“You’re right; you’re older, wiser than me, and very right. I can’t stay here longer than I have to. In spring, when the seas become better, I’m returning to El Nido.”
Crono nodded.
“As you must. But take joy in your time here while it lasts. I daresay it will make the time of waiting pass all the swifter.”
He turned and left, leaving Serge alone once again.
He had not told Crono all that was in his mind, certainly. As always doubts hovered there unspoken of, made all the more potent in this grim weather. He had no doubt of his love for Leena now. But what of her? Had she, too, come to such an understanding? Moreover, he had been gone many months now, sending no word and hearing naught of her. And so he had no assurance in any way that she still shared his love. And how could he even expect such a thing? She did not know even if he yet lived, or if he lay dead upon a battlefield. He had known the girl his entire life, from childhood on, and Leena was true to both words and unspoken bonds. But even so he would not have faulted her forgetting him, and it sat worrisomely upon him. He only prayed that her love had not waned in the passed time, and that the old saying holding that time apart strengthens love was not false.
And so it was that his waiting for spring were days filled with doubt and uncertainty, and the turn of the season could not come nearly soon enough. The winter appeared to last forever (and, in the north, Serge learned, was not counted equal in length to the other three, but was in truth the longest of all.) Yet spring came at last, and in early March the first green buds were sprouting in the trees. And even then the forests sparked alive with meandering streams and reborn life.
Yet the change of season was to Serge the signal bell that the time when he could return home was nearing.
It was on a day of early spring that Serge at last prepared to leave Guardia castle. Once, perhaps for the last, he strode up to the high battlements where he had been wonted to walk in mindful thought so many times the span of the winter. Crono stood there, gazing out across his vast kingdom with a mellow smile. Sadness still lingered in his mood, a melancholy that ever sat hidden within his countenance. Already he had earned repute as the quietest king that had yet sat upon the throne of Guardia, for he spoke little to any but his dearest friends save in need.
“Hey, Crono! I thought I’d find you up here,” Serge greeted lightly.
Crono looked over at him, seemingly unsurprised, yet more likely it was only that he was startled from thought.
“Oh, greetings on this day, Serge. And all the more blessed for you, I think. Today is the day you leave us, then? You appear more joyful than I have seen you in many weeks.”
Serge nodded.
“Yes. Going home at last.”
“But it simply is not home,” Crono replied for him, “as you have told me so many times. Have your farewells been said, then, and am I the last to give your journey blessing?”
“No. I’m not exactly sure where they are, but I thought I’d find you up here.” Serge answered.
“Of course, Guardia in the spring is a sight not to be missed by those that care for beauty. But this land shall not last, Serge. Even as winter must at needs follow summer, Guardia must some day die, as is the way of all things in this world. We have merely given it new breath, for a lifetime, or a hundred years. That fate time shall tell. But it will come to pass, with certainty, that no one will remember us. Both our wars and our efforts will be utterly forgotten. It may be a fond wish to think that a thing might endure for eternity, but any that has lived some score of years in this world will know it to be naive. Ah, history tells a grim tale. Time, the merciless destroyer of the strong and mighty: all kingdoms and empires are destined to fall, and their tales pass into shadow. After all, who weeps for Carthage? Who laments the fall of noble Athens? Where now are the walls of once peerless Uruk? Countries rise and fall, and the pages of history are written red in the lifeblood of civilizations. And yet from the ashes arise new lands and people, forged from the death-pyres of the old. Rebirth, as surely as spring follows even the harshest winter. So time is not only a destroyer; it is also the redeemer, a creator of things more wondrous than ever before, though I deem it is a hard thing to see in the moment in which we live. It seems to bring death and endings only, but we must always remember that it brings rebirth, and new beginnings.”
He paused, then seemed to have another thought, and his face darkened again, where it had been lightening a moment before.
“And then there is war. It seems to be the bane of mankind, and yet history itself is but a chronicle of our wars, petty or otherwise. Thirteen thousand years ago, I have heard it said, Zeal vanquished the kingdom of Astrad; near to a million died in that war, Schala has told me, yet the lives of every one of those that lived and died then is forgotten, by near everyone that lives now. What meaning then did their struggle have? What lasting end did it accomplish? It was a chasing after the wind, maybe, a toil of only vanity. And here we have fought a war that is but a small affray aside that, great though it may seem now to us. Our victory has reborn a kingdom; perhaps in a hundred years another such time of strife will wrest it away again, and put all this struggle at naught. And then the time will come when even the very name of Guardia is no longer spoken. On that day, what will the lives of these people mean? What will our lives mean, and what end will the struggle we endured have accomplished? Even as the men that fell in the battle over Astrad so long ago show us: in the eyes of history, nothing. Our lives are but a fleeting shadow; we grow for a season, are felled by the sickle of death, and are swept away like chaff in the wind of fate.”
He paused in his words, and shook his head sadly.
“I speak too darkly. I have a kingdom in my hands: both crown and kingship are mine. But bereft of my queen I feel empty, even now, Serge. I take solace in the company of my son, but it will not ever assuage my grief. Never before did I take to such contemplations as I do now, or muse on the meaning of my deeds, or what lasting end I accomplish through them. I merely did and left such thoughts to the old and grey. But now I am upon the verge of such years; now, in a sorrow that will haunt me to my grave, I feel compelled to discover the reasons and truths behind my deeds, and the ways that govern this world. Not only that of my own mortality, but that of my kingdom, and of memory itself: it is ever-present in my mind.
“What I have come to see is this: that we would be fools to forget our past, for we must understand that to forget the deeds of our own forebears puts their lives and deeds to naught. In doing so we must then remember that if we are so swift to forget they that came before us, that will be the fate that will befall us as well; if we would wish to be remembered, we must first ourselves remember, and teach our children to do the same.”
As he finished saying this his words trailed slowly, and he sat down wearily. At length he looked up again.
“But I have rambled beyond reason in my uncertainty. This was not my purpose; rather, I wished to ask you, Serge, to stay but a day longer. I beg this of you, for there is something I wish you to see. But it will not come till dawn tomorrow at earliest.”
“What’s that?” Serge asked, his curiosity suddenly wakened.
But Crono shook his head.
“Ah, but I wish you to be surprised by it. I assure you will be most pleased if you stay.”
And how could Serge argue to this? He agreed to stay, but only that one more day. The days were becoming warmer, and he wished to be back in his village and with Leena before summer came.CHAPTER XVII (Part II)
A WINTER’S SOLACE
The next day dawned bright and clear, with a certain chill edge upon the air.
“A true northern-spring morning!” Crono said with a laugh when Serge found him. “Here we do not put too much faith in the coming warmth. At times it snows well into May.” He glanced at the sky, smiling. “But it is a fair guess to say that this is not one of those years. Ah, well, here you are, and I dare-say you are not much interested in the weather. So, come and see!”
He led the way to the furthest wall of the castle, from where a great deal of the lands of Guardia could be seen. The brown forest surrounding the castle was beginning to break into green, a sure sign that spring was here (and Serge had difficulty imagining that it might yet snow after such a time.) The sky was no longer grey, as was so often the case during the winter, but shone clear and blue. A cool spring sun greeted his eyes with soft but merry light.
“Ah, the land of Guardia. As I have said many a time: free. But it is not alone in this! Porre is retreating its fingers because of our victory.”
“They’re beaten?” Serge asked, quite surprised; from the manner in which Crono usually spoke, he would have never imagined Porre releasing its grip upon its lands willingly.
“Yes,” Crono said, then added: “For a time. My heart forebodes ill in the coming year: Porre is wrathful at our victory, I am sure, and this retreat is but a foreshadowing of a gathering counterstrike, maybe. Yet for now we can be glad: your El Nido is free! The fight you thought to be only for a faraway kingdom has touched your own home dearly as well, it appears.”
“But how do you know that?” Serge asked. “You haven’t sent messengers to El Nido, have you?”
“Some, yes,” he answered, “in spite of the peril of the winter storms. The seas clear early and are passable in February, but are still perilous until April. You see, I had heard rumours of the retreat of their armies, but I wished for surety in the report. And what I heard was true: not a ship of the Empire remains in El Nido. But what do you care of the affairs of state?” Crono said, shaking his head. “Yet in this lies the reason for my begging your staying. See over there, beyond the farthest reaches of the forest” he said, and pointed out at the wide lands all about, but most in particular to where the path of the forest trail wove from the plains beyond, through the woods and came at last to the fortress. Here could scarcely see anything that passed under the boughs, but even so he could discern a small company that wound their way down the road, perhaps a mile from the castle.
“You see those who walk down the road?” Crono asked.
In reply Serge nodded, to which Crono said:
“Those are the very messengers I sent to El Nido. But their errand was not all one of state affairs; they bring some tidings from your village as well.”
“They do?” Serge asked, very much surprised.
“Yes. When I heard you speak of your wish for your home I made certain of it that you should at least hear tidings of it to lessen your longing. Come,” he said, waving his hand in a command to have Serge follow him, “and you shall hear what they have to say.”
He strode off along the wall and to the tower stairs. But Serge remained in his place for a short time thereafter, watching the company in the far distance wind its way among the trees, appearing and disappearing as the trail went along its way.
Ah, it would be good to hear some news from home once again. He had heard nearly none in all of the past few months, and was quite anxious to hear how his mother and friends and Leena were faring, especially now in the aftermath of war and the retreat of the Empire.
As the company passed into the last passage of the forest, Serge made his way from the battlements. It was a lengthy walk, down flights of spiralling stairs, and through not a few arched hallways, and lastly cross the great throne room itself, so when at last he came into the main courtyard the gates were already open, and the travellers inside.
Here were a few merchants with unusual wares (or, rather, unusual to the eyes of Guardia; to Serge they were very much common), but more numerous were the officials and heralds, bearing dragon-crossed banners and arrayed in dress of red, gold, and black. And least of all, and far most astounding to Serge, was perhaps the most simple of all that stood among them. For here, to his full amazement, was Leena.
For a fleeting moment he thought it to be some illusion or half-seen memory born of the wish of his mind. But it was not so: she truly stood there, real amidst the men of office and trade.
“Leena?” he asked, but said little more, for such was his surprise.
“Of course!” she cried, indignant, but at once her face softened into a smile. “They’ve told me all about your battles and the like. I thought it best to come here, seeing as I didn’t know when you’d actually get around to coming back with all these battles or yours.”
Serge could hardly keep his joy at hearing her voice and words hidden.
“I was leaving today,” he said.
“I know,” she answered with a smile. “Your friend Crono sent a message to me at the harbour when we landed, and told me to hurry to stop your leaving.”
“You wanted to see me so much that you came all the way from home?” Serge said, his voice becoming soft.
She nodded at this, as any looking upon the exchange would have expected. To Serge, however, who had spent so many long days in uncertainty over her feeling toward him, it had not at first been so clear. But now he ceased caring for all else, and the gladness of his heart at seeing her was magnified ten-fold, for he saw that she yet bore him love even as she had before, and looking toward her eyes he felt that it were greater now than before.
At that moment everything became aright to his mind, and every concern vanished as though they had never been.
After they spoke many tender words to each other, as is the way with two who love each other dearly and have been perforce separate for a long while (and even more so when such a thing as war has been the dividing wedge.) As it was, Serge was so enlivened by having Leena’s company again that he fully forgot his desire to return home. The days thereafter were more pleasant than any he had spent for months. Indeed, absence had made their love manifest, and all the more sweeter, and they spent their days merely speaking. On occasion they would talk a space about the war, but Serge cared little for any of those things of last autumn, and all his thoughts were now turned toward Leena.
Little enough needs be said of the things that passed in the following days, save for this:
When Leena had stayed there for little more than a week, it came into Serge’s mind, which was now freed from the shackles of both war and heroic duty, to ask Leena to wed (for in all his troubles with the war he had at least come to the full realization that he loved her, and that there was little reason in delaying such a thing for longer.) And, being of like mind to him in the matter, she readily consented to it.
In truth, however, the whole thing was a somewhat humorous affair to those that witnessed it, for it ran so.
Serge had reached his decision to ask her favour in the matter on a sudden one day. Upon reaching his decision, and being suddenly enflamed to it, and unwilling to wait in the asking (less his nerve fail him ere he asked it) he sped up to her even in the middle of the court, where she stood. He had had the intent of bowing to a knee, and gracefully asking marriage of her, but as he came forward he faltered in his steps and, far from approaching her in a noble manner, found himself lying at her feet most ungracefully. Few there were in the court that did not laugh, in despite of the formality of tradition, for, to see a hero, who had fought through dire battles and wielded terrible power, be overcome by the very floor struck even the most stern of lords as a laughing matter. For Serge’s part it made the whole thing all the more difficult. He stood and greeted Leena meekly, glancing nervously at the dimming laughter. But, dismissing his own embarrassment and fear, he at last took her hand suddenly in his and asked her, even there and after such a foolish display, saying simply:
“Marry me, Leena?”
Of course this could be counted among the least eloquent of all such requests but, seeing as it was not something she had looked for at that moment, she was put into a most awkward place (for which she after reproached him in her wonted way of feigned vehemence.) But could think of nothing else to say other then to accept his words. For she knew herself well enough to know what she wished, perhaps being wiser than he in heart-felt matters, and had in truth secretly hoped for it for a great length of time.
The news of the marriage spread swiftly around the castle. The others of the company, Crono, Janus, and Schala, were the first to be told. Crono was greatly pleased to hear that such a thing had come of his certain gift of bringing Leena to Guardia. Janus merely said: “Wonderful,” and though this could have easily been in mockery, it was likely that it was simply as short a congratulations as he could think of to say. Schala, for her part, was somewhat more graceful, saying: “A blessed day indeed. But may it be more blessed when the promise becomes oath.”
Yet upon the eve-tide of that day Janus found his sister alone upon the battlements of the keep, pacing with a disquieted mood about her.
Janus frowned at his sister.
“Are you not pleased with this news? I think it troubles you somewhat.”
Schala smiled faintly.
“Troubles? No. And yet...” she sighed, and looked the other way.
But ere she turned, her brother had read her mood, and he peered at her curiously, and in surprise.
“You love him. That is it, is it not?”
“Love him?” she said vaguely, still glancing upon the setting sun. “By all the company of heaven, yes. From the deepest chambers of my heart, I do. That is why I sought him out again from the other world,” she turned to her brother, “despite what I may have told you. And do not tell me you could not see through my poorly feigned words.”
He merely shrugged it aside.
“Such things are foreign to me. I am inclined to see love as the chief downfall of heroes. I assure you, I could not till now.”
“Then you are not as wise as I thought,” she said, and buried her head in her hands. “I must keep assuring myself this is all best. So! he chooses Leena, and my love-blinded hopes are cheated.”
“You never spoke to him of it,” Janus muttered, and she replied:
“Were it strong enough in him, he should have felt it without the need for words. Even as it is twixt the two of them. And seeing that, I now ask myself what could I give him, as it is.”
“You can give him your love, just as she does,” Janus replied. “If poets speak true, what greater gift can a woman give to a man, sister?”
She shook her head and turned once more to the sun.
“Yes, that I surely can. Yet love is not a river that flows but one way, Janus. Would he love me? I think not.”
He frowned at her in disagreement.
“Would he not? You are in his heart as well, that much, at least, I have seen. He cares for you more than he might concede even to himself. And was it not his love that saved you so long ago?”
“Ah yes, that he did. Had he not loved me, that dragon relic could never have redeemed me,” she paused in uncertainty, thinking deeply about those times they had shared. At last she said:
“He loves part of me, I deem. He loves Kid, that free spirit. But she no longer exists, at the very least not as she once did.”
She struck the stone before her in grief.
“Curse that! Now part of me is also Schala, whom he has never known before. And I would not have him love but part of me. Such a thing must be shared fully, else it is only a mockery of what it should be.”
“And so you would allow him to wed another?” Janus asked.
She sighed, dropping her shoulders sadly, looking to the stone floor, and said:
“Yes, I would.”
She glanced up again.
“I love him greatly enough to wish what is best for him, in spite of what my own girlish heart may desire. His longing is one whom he may love with his whole heart, and who can return it in full. Such a union I cannot give him. Perhaps that vagabond Kid could have, had things been different. Yet that now is a thing lost forever.”
Janus quickly replied, and said:
“But what of those things she does not have? You have wisdom, and strength beyond the reckoning of that peasant maid!”
“Wisdom?” she wondered aloud. “Perhaps I do, though such a thing only others can truly judge.”
She swept her hand dismissively and began pacing, saying:
“But shall he love the princess of a fallen land? No, I should not think so. Might and sigaldry, it truly is a curse. I do not want this! I would rather have his love than ten times my power; yet how can one deny what they are? I am Schala, latest princess of old Zeal. And I am of like power to him, for there are few living that may command such true sorcery, and the four of us are almost as kin now; too near in some ways for love.
“Crono and Marle were of like power, were they not?” he countered. “You do not speak with reason, but rather make excuses to ease what you feel you must do. Yet the way of things is hardly set, even now.”
But she shook her head.
“What once was between us is now lost, forever. Kid will never more be without Schala, and only in such a thing could any bond of love have been found. I have seen this: his heart craves peace and simplicity, as the simple devoted love that Leena bears towards him. That is what he wishes for. And that is what I cannot give him, in despite of all my will. Accursed fate! I am ancient in wisdom, yet still trammelled to the loves of a maiden heart! What wicked chance brings this paradox to be? Each calls the other folly in my mind, and I cannot see which to obey. Which is more noble a thing: to love wisdom and knowledge, or to love another? Janus, brother, bless your fortune that you are not so divided.”
“I rather bless my fortune that I do not care for such loves at all,” he answered, but she laughed a little, saying:
“I did not curse it, and neither should you be so thankful. It is a wondrous thing when requited, yet if not it can be harsh to bear. Such, it seems, is my fate.”
She turned her face to see the last rays of the sun, fading behind the far hills. She grasped the stone of the battlement, and Janus could plainly see she was making a choice difficult to accept.
“So I will deny my heart and dissemble my feelings. And I wish the best for him. I hope their love may never fade, and be as that between Crono and Marle: strong even past death. Yet my coming was not wholly in vain. His friend I was, and that I remain, until the end of things.”
She turned to her brother, and he could see slight tears in the corners of her eyes. She smiled ever so slightly, and then looked at him grimly.
“But he must never learn of what I have just said. I will not have him doubt his heart once again! Janus, I charge you as my brother not to say a word: if you ever speak to Serge of this, I will make certain of it that you never speak another word in your life again.”
Perhaps it was an ill timed jest but, yet again, he did not fully understand his sister’s heart in many matters. And he would not wish to cross her for any love or hate.
The day of the marriage came swiftly, and it was certainly grand. The courts of the fortress were thronged with people, both inside and outside the cathedral. The magnificent stained-glass once again adorned the windows, and the symbol of a great cross set therein was aflame with sunlight. And far below, at the foot of the alter, Serge knelt before the Archbishop. At his left hand was Leena, upon her knees as well, and bedecked in as fine array of samite as could be found in all the kingdom. A crown of silver flowers, crafted by some master silversmith, adorned her head. Her hazel hair was woven with wild-flowers in the custom of the brides of Guardia. Serge could not remember a day on which she had looked more beautiful to his eyes, or when he had loved her more.
He himself was dressed in a gilded robe that Crono had presented him with; a very costly gift, no doubt. Upon his finger he wore a ring of true-silver; its match was on Leena’s, and was to be in remembrance of the oaths they were to take. These, too, were gifts from the kingdom of Guardia, and were or worth such as not even the lords of his islands were accustomed to wear.
“Before God and man,” the bishop said, his voice in a strange manner grave and kindly, “will you swear to bind yourselves to each other for all your lives.”
Serge nodded.
“I swear to hold Leena, daughter of Miguel, as my wife and companion. Before God and man I will swear this, and abide with it until death, or the world’s ending.”
“And I likewise bind myself to Serge, son of Wazuki, for life until death,” Leena replied.
The bishop then replied: “Then before God and all Men, and by the authority given to me in representation of our Holy Lord, you are now husband and wife. Arise in this new union, and in the knowing that you are not two but one.”
He made the sign of the Cross between them, and they rose.
“My king,” the Archbishop said to Crono who stood nearby, “will you, too, bless this marriage, and pray that God keep it?”
“I will indeed,” he replied, coming forward. “As king of this realm, may you be blessed here forevermore, Leena and Serge. May your days be joyous, and never grow dim.”
And bowing he returned to his place with a gracious smile.
Then all cheered aloud, for Serge, though of a foreign land, was indeed one of their heroes, and to see him so upon such a joyful day gave them happiness. And only Janus could perceive that, though all smiled greatly and laughed with the mirth of the day, one there was whose countenance bore a hidden sadness.
And with this marriage the spring came joyfully, and not a tear was in any eye in those days, unless it was of joy. Everyone, from the King to the meekest peasant, felt an assurance of better days, and that the end of their fifteen year struggle was come at last.
CONCERNING THE FOUNDING OF ZEAL
Concerning the history of Zeal of the Thousand Names, from the preface to the volumes pertaining to it in the later writings of the mistress of lore, Schala Faeri:
It is often thought, wrongly, that the time of the dominion of Zeal was for only one generation. It lasted, rather, for a span of no less than one thousand years, over the course of which near to thirty kings and queens ruled from its throne. Certainly it did not possess its great might at its founding: that grew through its ages until it became the greatest and most powerful kingdom that the world had ever seen, and perhaps shall ever see.
The first king was, in origin, a captain of some renown in the kingdom of Antaras which thrived yet in those years. He had fought countless battles both upon the sea and in the northern wastes (that in those years were still encroaching further south). It came to pass, in time, that this captain rose to such power amongst his people that he was made king of all Antaras, and took the name Ter-Meredior, which is ‘the king who is a man of glory’ in the old tongue of that land.
When he had sat on the throne for but a few years he summoned to his court all the greatest of the sorcerers of men from all corners of the earth, and spoke to them concerning a grand dream that had come to him for many nights. He told of a fortress and city, built high amongst the clouds of heaven, untouched by the tumults of the earth. Upon hearing this all the people and wizards were amazed, and wondered at how it might be accomplished, whereat the king brought forth a great treasure that had for long been forgotten. This, it is said, was the ancient gem known as Selinost, or dreamstone. And he spoke saying the following words:
“This is a gem of great power and ancientry, kept safe and secret by my kin since the first days, and through it may many things of wonder be achieved. Yea, even this dream that I have had! Though the years of building may be long, should this come to fulfilment, as I indeed think it our destiny to be, we shall be the greatest of all mortal kingdoms, and may in time encroach even upon the realms of immortality.”
And all who heard his words that day thought them to be exceedingly fair and wonderful, though long after, in the years following the Great Ruin, it was thought that perhaps the dreams and thoughts that brought about the kingdom of Zeal were not so pure, and born only out of man’s sinful desire for unending life and power. But for then things seemed yet good, though in the great will shown by Ter-Meredior this new kingdom was named Selevroth (that is Zeal in the latter tongue of the west.) For zealous indeed was the king, as were all the people of the earth as they rose to help him in this endeavour.
And even as he had prophesied, it was not short in building. Great towers and cities, more fair than aught others that graced the earth in that age, were raised on the plains of Rosannoth. These fields were a hundred leagues across, and lay in the west-most lands of Antaras.
And then at last the long awaited day arrived, and there gathered all the sorcerers of the world, from least to greatest, and they ringed about the entire field. And in the very centre of the plains, upon the tower of the King, upon a spire of gilded limestone, stood Ter-Meredior. Holding high the dreamstone, he spoke ancient words of power long since forgotten, and it is said that his voice that day echoed even across to the verge of the plain, and all the magicians who heard it took up the call. And even as they did so the land shook and a great earthquake began. An lo! the plains themselves, bound to the sigaldry of the king and the stone of dreams, rose from the earth. As the day waxed the plains loosed themselves from their bond to the earth. And so, in that day, was the kingdom of Zeal born.
Little else is remembered, for the later people of that fair land were more eager to remember their own deeds than those of their forebears, but this at least is remembered: that when the twilight grew dim on that day, and the great shadow of Zeal for the first lay long upon a wondering earth, a prophet by the name of Tiresias stepped forward. He was blind, and had had no part in the great raising, for his powers were only those of foresight. Then he stood tall amongst the wizards, and raised high his voice so that all heard. And he cried:
“Hear me, children of this new kingdom! On this day is born what is fated to be the greatest of the kingdoms of men, so rejoice! But do not hold too dear this land of your making, nor become too enamoured of its fair halls, nor forget that you are but mortal. For behold! I see in the sky circling ten ravens. For each of these will this land last one hundred years, and in this time will it prosper and grow, and none shall surpass it in beauty or might; all shall flock to its halls and call it blessed. But when the tenth raven has died, then beware! For should you have forgotten who you are, and that you are mortal, then shall you find all that you have built and hold dear crumble to ruin.”
Then most jeered, and mocked him for but a blind fool. But the wisest of those that heard the words took especial thought to them, and never did they or their children forget those words that were spoken. And so when, after a thousand years, the last queen of Zeal, Tiros-Rosmered, sought to take the power of the ancient demon Lavos for her own, so as to become immortal, there were some that became wary, and remembered well the words of the old seer. And these worked in secret against her designs, in guard against the prophesied day of ruin they feared was nigh. But this is told elsewhere, in the great lay The Fall of Zeal and, also, in the poem called Tirnis Selevrotho, or the Princess of Zeal, which recounts the grim fortunes that befell the last daughter of that great house. Yet her tale is woven into many another, and has no place in this chronicle.
CONCERNING THE DESCENDANTS OF ZEAL
Regarding the last of the descendants of glorious Zeal, as recorded in the tenth and final Annal of Zeal scribed by the Lady Schala Faeri:
Some, indeed, of the noble and high lineage of Zeal outlived the cataclysm that whelmed their kin. These, however, became but a shadow and a memory of what they had been before the Ruin. At the time of the height of Zeal those that lived upon its blessed land became so fair and powerful that they seemed no less than Nephila (that is, angels), descended to earth from the realms of high heaven. But after the Fall their glory and power dwindled, so that their splendour was no more than that of others, and the light of their eyes was dimmed as they wept over what they had lost through their own pride and folly. Through the countless years they were mingled with the lesser peoples, and in time all that they had been was forgotten. Only a few yet held the ancient heritage that had graced those of Zeal, and in after days they arose as mighty memories of that forgotten golden age, and those who beheld them and the deeds that were performed through them were in awe. For the strength of the ancient world was in their limbs, and the glory of Zeal shone like a memory from their eyes. Chief of these were the last two children of the ruling house of that downfallen kingdom, named Janus and Schala.
Schala, the elder, fell through much torment because of the Fall, and was made subject to the very evil she had striven against, the might of the demon Rosroth (who was named once Lavos, in a tongue all but forgotten, even by the time of Zeal.) Yet in time her bonds were shattered, mostly through the works and cunning of the master named Balthasar, who was once a subject lord under her hand, for she had been the princess of Zeal, before her darkness. Balthasar, being a man of high nobility and honour, held her to be his liege-lady, even though her torment seemed hopelessly eternal. Yet seemingly in despite and scorn of fate he achieved the end of her rescue, and so redeemed her through both the works of his own hand, and by the guiding of the destines of other heroes (of whom the chief of these was the one after called Saereth Masamunë, which signifies “The swordsman of the Masamunë,” for it was indeed that sword that he carried; but forgotten to history he was, in his youth, known by other names.) In the later days of her life, when she had been saved, her eyes became once more as one of Zeal undimmed: shining like twin stars, and even as profound.
Janus was the younger of the two. He was also swept away in the great Ruin, though in a way unlike that of Schala, who was his sister. He, rather, was by chance, or maybe fate, winged to the time when the eastern Mystics who held Medina threatened the western world with war and conquest. But being at that time but a youth of scarcely five years, he fell in with the ranks of the East. From them he learned such ways of sorcery and spellcraft as was known in later days, and through the dark nature of his teachers his mind was darkened. But the power of Zeal that was in his blood was strong, mightier than any other that was on the earth in later days. Spells he learned, and bettered them. And enchantments there were that he knew that were a mystery to all others even among his teachers. So it came to pass in time that he rose to such high standing amidst the ranks of Mystics that they took him to be their king, and even the proudest and strongest of their lords bowed to him and pledged fealty to his rule. So, when at last the leaguer of Medina was broken and the storm of the assault of the East broke heavy upon the Western lands of Zenan, upon both Porre and mighty Guardia, they were lead by he. To his enemies he was a mysterious figure, a dark sorcerer of supreme power (for which he was named in fear Magus, the Sorcerer), and his coming on the battlefield was a herald of doom, for enmeshed in shadows he appeared as a figure of frightening terror, and only the boldest would stand firm against the onslaught of his dread guard. This might seemed near divine to those who beheld it, and some there were that whispered that their enemies were led by the very prince of darkness himself, and that to take arms against him would be fruitless. But, in truth, it was that none anymore knew of the mortal power that had been possessed by the children of the great kingdom of Zeal, and so to lesser men he seemed to be mighty beyond compare (for none there had ever seen the armies of Zeal as they had been of old; if Janus was mighty upon the later fields, he was but one, and the gathered hosts of old Zeal were said to number greater than one hundred thousand, and shone like a legion of angels). Yet even in this darkness of conquest the cunning of his lineage did not sleep, and neither did his pride. For he was consumed in a fiery fervour for vengeance against the demon that had wrested from his kingdom and birthright. Behind the veil of his darkness and sorcery his dauntless mind bethought itself a way in which to find redress for his loss, and slay the ancient demon. This is a long tale, and is a web of intertwining destines and fates, and spans many an age. But at long last he, even as his sister had, found himself free from the burden of both darkness and vengeance.
Thus until their deaths there lived two at least who echoed of the glory of the ancient world, of Zeal the Lost and the greatness of those who had dwelt therein.
In all history only three others there were that kept alive the ancient traditions of Zeal. These were known by many names, but here it might be said that they were the three chief lords of the land of Zeal and, moreover, were men of great wisdom and knowledge, and lived by nobility and honour that might rival the most righteous of kings. But being born of Zeal they, too, fell under the Judgement, though in all the evil later deeds of the kingdom they were blameless (having fought against them).
Eldest of the three was the one named in later traditions Gaspar. His mind was keenest to understand the workings of fate and destiny, and marvelled over the road of time, seeking to understand time itself. It is held that in this he did in some measure succeed for, though it was often later thought to be but myth, he indeed forged a thing of great power and destiny. In legend this is remembered as the Time Egg. Thereafter he forged two more, and these he gave to his two peers. But this deed went even beyond his wisdom, for world stood at the edge of ruin, and it would be these things of his that would be the sword by which the evil would be undone.
Second before him in years was a man of great worldly knowledge, named Balthesar in most lore. Kingly and tall, and marked with a great beard of white, he was held by those under him to be nearly king-like. But, as his two nearest friends, he did not care for glory overmuch. His chief love was in the making of things, and in the understanding of the truths that reside in and govern the world as it is seen to the senses. Little of the ways that pass under the watch of the sun was unknown to him, and with many devices he even looked far into the heavens as an astronomer, marking the movements of the stars and planets. In after years he would have been known as a man of science, but as yet in Zeal no such thing was known, and he it was that first gave birth to many of those ideals that were later re-learned by those knowledgeable men of the Hellenes (of whom Aristotle was chief.) He mastered the rules of the world, and knew the ways in which to turn them to his own ends, forging wondrous creations: a great flying machine, devices uncounted, and even the great time-ship called Epoch, used in the salvation of the world by the Great Hero, is accounted to his hand.
Youngest of the three Masters was the kindest, named Melchior (that is ‘the man who performs deeds of skill’ in the tongue of Zeal.) As Balthesar he was renowned wide for the creating of marvellous works, and yet they were of a different sort. Whereas the elder Balthesar saw all with worldly eyes, Melchior thought upon things differently, and looked rather for the truths and realities that lay behind things, rather than in them. Swords and arrays of weaponry he oft fashioned, yet he looked at them not as things of steel and iron with which to cleave flesh, but rather as destroyers of life and at what would be accomplished through them, seeing all with a mind of philosophy, and more apt to magic. While Balthesar looked to the earth and skies, and Gaspar to the past and future, Melchior was wont to discover what laws bound all these unseen beyond the understanding of knowledge, and ever held that truth lay not within things, but behind them in a realm of spirits unseen to the eyes of Man (very much, indeed, as Plato would later hold the world to be.) It was not, then, to be wondered at that of all things he was most renowned for, chief was the forging of the great sword Masamunë, the sword of dreams and angels, as some named it. For it was fashioned of Selinost Dreamstone, and through his understanding he gave birth to the brethren spirits of the blade that later would do great deeds in the service of righteousness. But, in counter of his smithing of weapons, he was compassionate, despising death and battle, and taking part in such things only by the wisdom that they need be at times. For life he ever kept in highest regard, holding it to be a glimpse in this world of the Power that lies beyond the understanding of Men, and is the truth in and behind all things.
So ends the chronicle of the fortunes of Zeal. Thereafter the world lived in many an age of darkness, till nine millennia later the rise of the kingdoms of Uruk and Egypt signalled the renewed birth of civilizations. In the years that then followed there were empires and kingdoms without count, many of which are remembered to history: Babylon, the people of Akkad, Assyria and the Hittites, and a thousand others, to be succeeded by the time of the Hellenes, in which art and things of beauty once again began to rival Zeal. This, and the tales of after days, is told elsewhere.