CHAPTER IX
THE CAPTIVE PRINCESS
"Too long," Crono muttered as they stole between the trees. "It has been too long. Midnight is long since past, and," he broke off. About them the trees had suddenly thinned. In the near distance they could see a break in their dark ranks.
"At last," Crono said with much relief. "We are almost there."
They raced to the eaves, the fallen leaves rustling beneath their heedless steps. They did not fear soldiers in these pathless areas of the forest. Kneeling as they broke from the trees, they stopped.
Finally Serge saw through the few remaining trees, illumed by the dim silver light of the moon, the silhouette of the fortress. He caught his breath sharply upon seeing it, for it was far mightier than he had thought it would be. About its feet lay the buildings of the Castle City. These were ringed about by a small wall, fortified every few hundred feet by a guarded gate. This, however, was of little concern to the two. The citadel of the town, the mighty fortress of Guardia, sat grim before them, as a shadowed giant resting upon the hillside.
"That's no little castle," Serge said, his words spoken to himself, yet out loud.
"No, it is not," Crono replied distantly, staring upon the many towered walls of the castle, the selfsame fortress he had once called home. "It is the mightiest in the whole of the North."
"Come," Crono said, breaking into a furtive run from the trees. Clinging to the shadowy eaves the two took course about the castle, coming at last to the northwest most wall. Here Crono paused, contemplating the defences from afar. Towering to a height of perhaps two hundred feet the dark walls of stone seemed to be made of smooth glass in the dim starlight.
"There is no way we can climb that, Crono," Serge whispered at his side.
"Wait here," Crono commanded, disregarding Serge's words and ever so carefully creeping into the open grassy plain that lay between him and the castle walls. He looked back for an instant as he disappeared into the darkness.
"When I tell you, come," he said, and was gone.
It seemed well near to an hour to Serge before he saw any sign of Crono again. Perhaps it was indeed that long, but he had no means of marking the passage of time. In the darkness of the forest eaves he heard only the common nighttime sounds of creatures hunting and small beasts scurrying on their furtive errands. The stars danced brightly in their high home in the clear of the night, yet they were strange to Serge. He had taken note of this upon many nights during their journey from the South, but now it finally dawned upon Serge how very much different this land was from his native one. Even the stars, the seemingly unchanging firmament by which paths were set, were changed from that which he had come to know. A great sickle of stars lay above the castle, a constellation he had never before known.
"A herald of doom," he murmured for no reason, looking curiously at these stars.
"What did you say?" Crono asked from the darkness at his side. Serge jumped somewhat; he had thought himself to be alone, and had not been mindful Crono's return.
"Oh, I was just," he began, but Crono shook his head, fixing such a concerned gaze upon him so that Serge himself began to feel unsettled.
"I know what it is you said. Do not say things such as that, most especially not at the start of such a perilous venture. You will curse us with dire prophesies."
"Maybe not meant for us, though," Serge replied, wondering himself about what he had said. But he dispelled his thoughts, taking another furtive glance at the stars crowning the castle. "I don't think that the stars mean much of anything to what we do as it is."
"Perhaps," Crono muttered, his voice still ringing with disquiet. "And yet the lights of heaven have always been a hallowed symbol to man. You see those that shine above us?" he asked, motioning skyward to an area nearly obscured by the overhanging treetops.
"Yeah, but they just seem like more stars," Serge said, unsure as to what pattern was to be seen amongst so many glimmering points of light.
"The Dragon, my friend. The constellation that is sacred to my land. And at its head is the Star of Guardia, Asharyth, the Light that arises in the darkness."
He took pause as he looked upon it.
"It smiles upon us and our fortunes. I have found a way in."
Racing swiftly across the small plain that lay about the castle, even as Crono had done earlier, they came to the base of the walls unseen to the eyes of the guards stalking the battlements. Truly, though, it would have been a strange chance had they been seen. Despite the shimmering moonlight that clearly illumed the fortress, the fields of tall grass were masked in the deep night that lay in the shadow of the castle. Not even a keen eyed night scout could have hoped to see what moved on that field.
"Here?" Serge asked, glancing about as they gained the fortress walls. He leaned heavily against the stone, running his gloved fingers across the grey stone. It was dark, and cold even through his gloves. Furthermore, it seemed that the wall was unbroken and formidable, with no cracks or crevices save those of weathering that had afflicted the stone in the millennia since it had been quarried and piled here as part of a fortress wall.
Crono nodded, crouching to the ground with his eyes intent on the earth. Sweeping away the thick weeds that encircled the foundations of the fortress he looked up at Serge.
"It is small, no doubt," he said, uncovering a crevice in the dirt. "But both of us are small enough to go through, I think."
It was very small, indeed, being no more than Serge's waist across, and overgrown with thick roots and weeds. It would not be a pleasant climb down, regardless of what waited at the bottom. And that was most likely a miserable cavern. Catacombs, Crono had called them, though it was a word he was unfamiliar with. He had a mind to ask Crono what it meant, but as he was about to Crono stood again.
"I will go first," Crono said, ungirding his sword and placing it and his bow into Serge's hands, "You pass me our weapons and follow."
He crouched at the hole and struggled downward. All too quickly for Serge's liking, for he soon found himself alone in the night. Looking up he felt his heart skip at the sight of the monstrous fortress looming high into the night. The moonlight lined the edges of stone, and in this dreamlike glow the fortress seemed more like to the haunt of some curse-bound sorcerer than that of an imperial guard legion. He shook his head, dissembling his stray thoughts.
He took up Crono's bow and sword, passing them carefully into the darkness. He could not see his companion lay hold of them, but they were taken from his grip and so he knew that Crono had made it safely down. He picked up the Masamune, dropping it down in its turn. It appeared, however, that Crono had not looked for this. From far below he heard the shrill clatter of the metal falling upon solid stone. It was fortunate, Serge thought to himself, that this was the Masamune and no lesser sword. Had it been some poorer blade the edge would no doubt have been notched by the fall.
And now, all else having gone, it was Serge's turn. Carefully he slid himself into the hole, very much aware of the dirt, damp and chill, against his arms and legs. The free roots, like tendrils of some loathsome thing, grappled at him in what seemed to be an attempt to keep him from reaching the bottom. But reach it he did, with more discomfort than hardship, and he landed lightly on the stone base.
But as he looked up, shaking his hair of the loose earth, he noticed with some fright that he could not see so much as his own self in the darkness. The stale air chocked his lungs, and in his nostrils a smell of decay burned. Only the sounds of their feet on the dusty stone came to his ears, and that was faint as well.
"Crono?" he whispered, fearing what he might awaken here in such a God forsaken place, at the feet of an ancient castle, "Where are we?"
He could not see Crono, but could hear by the footsteps that his companion stood not more than a few paces away.
"The ancient catacombs: the resting places of the noble dead of my land. This is their entrance."
Forsaken indeed, Serge thought. Not merely a dank cavern, but a tomb as well.
"I don't expect we have any light down here?" he asked gloomily, knowing by virtue of the fact that he still could see nothing that the darkness was complete in this place. No amount of time would allow him to see anything of what lay around. Only a faint and pale ray of moonlight shone into this place from the hole by which they had entered. And this was dim, as if but a memory of light, not affording him more than the sight of the stone floor where it touched.
"No," Crono replied darkly. "I had foolishly not accounted for this in my rush."
Serge could hear Crono shifting about, feeling for the walls.
"Curses," he heard him mutter. "It as dark as death here."
Serge could hear the sweep of a sword being drawn, the dull sound of metal sliding upon wood.
"And my sword cannot give light of its own accord," Crono continued bitterly.
At these words Serge felt thoughts enter his mind. Voices whispered, and he knew them to be the spirits of his own sword which lay on the stone at his feet where it had fallen He had heard them at rare times before, but even so knew them for what they were. He had always thought it a strange thing to be hearing such ghostly voices when surely no one else could.
"We can give you light, if you wish us to," sounded in his mind, in the seeming tongue of a child.
He nodded, mostly to himself, yet somewhat to the voice. Drawing up the hilt from the ground he held it firm in his hands, looking in the darkness for some sign of the blades.
"Yes, that would be helpful, Mune," he whispered in reply, though unsure whether it had been the younger or elder spirit that had spoken the words. In sound of voice they were near twin, save that Masa had scant more strength, and Mune was rather subtle in his tone.
In the darkness a gold-sheen appeared on either blade of his weapon. Softly at first, as if only a mere reflection from some unseen torch, but then waxing to a light of its own strength. Soon the twin ends of his weapon shone as brightly as any torch, but with a golden light more pure than any flame could achieve.
"Ah, I should have remembered the Masamune. That is a wondrous sword indeed," Crono said, returning his own sword swiftly to his scabbard and striding over to Serge. He glanced curiously at the blade as he regirded his own.
"I remember once, long ago, it clove a stone cliff in two without so much as dulling its edge."
Serge looked about the cavern. Other than the base it was mostly of earth, the plant roots reaching out of the roof and walls in every place. But upon one side a great stone wall stood. This was certainly the ancient foundation of the castle. Yet in one place there was a crevice, dark even in the light of the sword.
"Through there?" Serge asked.
Crono nodded.
"I saw this very place once from the other side. Rest assured, through there we will come to the halls of the dead, and thence into the courtyard of the castle."
He pushed on past Serge, attempting to see past into the darkness. But no light met his eyes from beyond, and so he could see nothing.
"You go first Serge."
He paused, seeing a reluctance in Serge's will to go blindly into such a dark place. "Do not worry yourself. There is nothing of any danger in there."
Serge crouched to the hole. The air coming from beyond was grimly stale, and the smell of death come with it. Serge felt his heart skipping in fear at the though of going first into such a place.
"It is no worse than the Isle, that is sure," Crono said. "Here the dead are in peace, and bear no hatred to those that live. They are bones, and nothing more. To be sure it appears dark and foreboding, but I can assure you there are no shades or wraiths lurking inside."
Serge glanced uneasily at Crono, believing him and yet not much comforted. The thought of a chamber filled with withered dead sent a bolt of fear through him. But he would have to endure it as best he could.
Serge crept inside, keeping the shimmer of the Masamune ahead of him. The light, though it thankfully made it possible to see where they went, cast disconcerting shadows about the rough and broken stone walls. His heart danced odd beats, and his breath was harsh and ragged; he half expected to come to face with some wight or other such haunt of tombs. But when Crono came through as well he felt his heart slow once again, to some extent, but the uneasiness did not fully leave him. And now they had come to the catacombs. Through many a chamber and antechamber they went, caverns delved perhaps a millennia ago, long ages before Serge's father's fathers had been born. And in every room it was alike. Crevices in which lay the remains of some great lord, bedecked in finery even as he had been in the day of his burial. Countless jewels of sapphire and ruby adorned the brows, and robes of samite and gilded silk were worn by the bodies, a memory of the days of Guardia's splendour. But though these trapping for the most part had survived the ages, the men themselves had gone the way of all dead. Their once undoubtedly fine faces were no more than bones, their fingers as lifeless as the stone upon which they sat. A strange thing, Serge though, to so adorn the dead with beauty that they have no need of, to make them appear as they did in life. What need did these corpses have of such trappings when scarcely a hair remained to them?
Serge looked about with wonder, but yet some nervousness. These things seemed so near to life in dress he could easily imagine them return to life. He half saw from the shadows in the corners of his eyes the dead turn their hollow eyes upon him, or suddenly sit up like some accursed wight all adorned with jewels and rings. Every stray sound was to him, for a moment, a thing of fear. But as the chambers led into more chambers his fear lessened, and his eyes ceased their darting.
Now coming into further halls they found yet more elaborate barrows, wherein were great tables of carven marble upon which the dead lay amidst countless jewels and riches.
In one such hall he glanced over with a curious eye to a finely arrayed corpse that lay upon a bed of stone, and was dressed in a dark robe with many gilded curves that shimmered in the near moonlike light of the Masamune. At the side lay a strange crested helm and a marvellous sheathed sword, inlaid with true-silver and gold and set with gems of jasper and adamant.
Crono too took note of this man, and stepped over to where he lay. Little remained of the man himself, for here seemed to be one of the most ancient of the dead lords. The skull lacked a jaw, and the fingers were rotted to mere bones. Yet still in one arm it held clutched a great book of edicts, and upon his brow was a jewel like a star in the darkness.
"Who was he?" Serge asked Crono, feeling sickened by this image of death, yet also somewhat fascinated by the dead man. In his own traditions, no dead would ever be buried in such an elaborate way. Indeed, no one was buried in any fashion at all; the funeral pyres consumed the bodies to ashes and those were scattered into the sea. And so it was strange to him to see a tradition so far removed from his own, where the dead were not simply remembered but also kept in stately dress as if they were but sleeping for eternity.
Crono looked with a curious gaze upon the bones, his searching eyes reading the ancient runes carved on the stones about the barrow.
"He was the first King, I think. See the helm by his side? That is no knight's helm, but of the fashion of ancient Rome. So, too, is this sword."
He reached out and caught up the short sword, drawing the blade from the sable sheath.
"A good blade, I think," he whispered, seeing the unblemished silver flickering in the light, "It has sat here untouched for a thousand years, and yet not stained nor decayed."
He smiled somewhat grimly as he placed the sword respectfully back in its place.
"The same may not be said for the one who bore it. Such a great king he was, the father of my land, and yet here he lies: he has been taken by death as all others. Look well Serge. It is a lesson mighty ones such as we should learn: even the greatest will have death take them in the end, and crumble unto dust. But as this sword yet remains, and Guardia yet has some life, deeds will echo forever if well done."
He knelt by the table and brushed the dust away from the edge.
"Here it says his name: Tribune Septimus Aurelius, after known as King, Lord of the West Island of Guardia. And here a verse in the tongue of Rome: Invenire pax in fides, et in pace recte vivere. 'Find peace in faith, and in peace live well'," he read along the stone.
"Even the dead speak words of wisdom," Crono said with a smile, rising again. He bowed shortly before the bones, looking over again to Serge.
"And look here," he continued, drawing his finger across an image cut into the stone at the foot of the table. It was of a knight, fully clad in great armour, girded with a mighty sword and riding a horse. Beyond, at the side of his path, stood two figures. One an old man that held an hour glass aloft. The other a horned demon it seemed, holding an evil lance. But the knight looked forward along his path undaunted by these two, even though the bones of other travellers lay strewn on the ground.
"This is not of this King's time," Crono noted. "Carved here by a later king in honour of his sire. It shows a valiant knight who continues on his path through life, undaunted by either death, who holds the hour glass in taunting, or the devil, the evil one who seeks to waylay those whom he might. It shows by example of this virtuous knight how kings, and all men, should live their lives. Steadfast, undaunted, and in faith."
He looked up to the dark archway that led from the chamber.
"We stray here long enough. Our errand is not to muse on the dead, but to assure that those who yet have days to live may see them through."
They left the chamber and found that this had been the last, perhaps even as it would have been the first to be delved a thousand years ago. Through the last arch that led out of these halls of the dead a great stair led. Up this they swiftly ran, being wary for the loose and broken stones that scattered the upward path. Serge wondered at how long it must be since any living feet trode these steps. Webs were so thick across the way that it seemed that it must be centuries. Thankfully the stair was not long, and they reached the topmost landing without much difficulty. Here stood a grey wooden door, rotten even as much as those buried below. Upon the wood an emblazoned design was still somewhat to be seen, though of what Serge could not tell. The latch was securely fastened, but the architects who had designed the passages had not feared that any should wish to leave. Certainly the dead would not rise and seek to wander free at any rate, and so the only lock was upon this inner side. Crono drew the ancient bolt aside, and the great door swung inward with such a sound that it seemed to be crying in pain.
What met Serge's eyes on the far side was a spectacular sight, even in the darkness. It was a great hall, high ceilinged and built of stone. Through many open windows the light of the moon streamed inward and alighted in ghostly pools of light upon the stone floor. Of its own accord the Masamune softly waned in light, till no gleam touched its edge save that of the moon.
Serge continued to look about in awe. The hall was magnificent. Only one other room so grand had he seen, and that had been in the Fortress of the Dragons. But here was such a place built by the hands of men, and so seemed all the more beautiful to Serge's eyes. The stone was arched in such graceful support of the roof that he could hardly believe them to be rock. And countless pillars lined the hall, carven with scenes from antiquity, holding balconies and levels high above the ground. At the far end of the hall a great round window stood open and bare, and through it shone the silver moon casting its light throughout.
"What sort of place is this?" Serge asked. It seemed to be a meeting hall, for many rows of long benches sat in order along the length of the chamber. Though dust hung heavy in the air, there seemed to be an air of holy beauty about the place.
Crono looked at him in surprise.
"Have you never seen a cathedral?" he asked, glancing about.
Serge shook his head.
"No, never. My people build out of wood, usually. Only the Acacian tribes used with stone when they built Termina on El Nido. But nothing ever like this," he added in awe.
He looked about again, realizing how grand a thing a cathedral was. A graceful construction of stone, built to the glory of God.
"The windows were the greatest beauty, once," Crono said, looking ruefully to the gaping window. "Through great labour they were of coloured glass. The great one faces east, and during the morning mass the sun would shine through in every colour, bespeaking of the glory of Almighty God. But they are gone now. Porre has little regard for things that serve no reason but that of beauty. They care only for things of purpose, things of science."
He closed the door behind him, and Serge saw why the tombs had remained hidden from Porre for so long; to the eye it seemed no more than part of the wall, and even now he could scarce see where it lay.
Crono ran lightly across to the far wall of the cathedral. Serge followed a moment later, slinging the Masamune across his back.
"Where do we go now?" he asked in a low whisper, leaning against the stone wall.
Crono looked over to a great set of doors, emblazoned with holy icons.
"Through the courtyard, to the keep. Not directly, across, certainly," he replied in response to the sudden anxiety that Serge showed at his words. "And not through those doors, unless we wish to be seen. We climb to the widows, and stay in the shadows. There are other ways into the keep that I know of, and many are the ways to the dungeons. Though I fear we will have to come on them from below. Come!"
He led the way to a spiral stair of inlaid with marble. This cathedral, Serge thought, had certainly been a glorious place once. They raced swiftly up its winding steps and terraces, and came to a landing far above the sanctuary. By the many seats that sat facing the main hall Serge could see that it would have been from this height that the choir would sing. But such days were long since gone.
"Here!" Crono called out from a small window at the side. Serge crept to his side and peered out. In the light of the moon he could see the courtyard clearly. Several guards wandered about, but without much fear of intruders. Those on the walls were more alert but, as the two that now looked at them from behind had proven, their watch was pointless.
Crono leaned out the window cautiously and took careful consideration of the stonework that lay about.
"We can make it," he concluded in a whisper to Serge. "It will be hard, but there are enough places to come climb along to reach the bottom."
Serge nodded.
"If we don't get spotted, though."
"Then for the love of God remain as quiet as possible," Crono replied sternly. "If but one of those guards here sees us, we are lost. Not only will we have condemned Marle to certain death, but we will surely be executed as traitors ourselves. Do you think that you can climb this wall?"
Serge nodded, feeling more enlivened now that the clear night air was in his lungs once again. It thrilled him somewhat as well, and for a second time he felt recklessly bold, ready to do anything for the cause of adventure. But as before it passed, and the truth of the situation took hold of him again: they were on a perilous mission, and the men patrolling the battlements would make no hesitation in killing them. He looked out the window, at their downward climb.
"I don't fear heights," he answered. That virtue at least was his, making the obstacle before them not as dangerous as might have been otherwise. Though if truth be told, it was most remarkably far from the ground, and he was not all too certain in saying so.
Crono swung his bow over his shoulder and crept cautiously out upon the eaves of the window. Nimbly he leaped down to a landing that lay several metres below. Serge followed swiftly, deftly climbing out with as much stealth as he could muster. Even with his sword slung weightily across his back he was nimble and sure footed. As Crono clambered down a buttress that led down some ways, Serge dropped himself onto the landing Crono had just left. His feet made hardly a sound. Finding sure footing on the cracks and spaces in the buttress he followed the path Crono had taken. Gripping his fingers tightly about the smooth limestone, he clambered from stone to stone as they slowly made their way earthward. More than once they found themselves without any way to go, and at needs retraced their climb a ways. But they were the favoured of fate, it seemed; they reached the courtyard without arousing the guard.
Even so it had been a hard climb, Serge thought to himself as he crouched gasping in breaths. And upon looking up from the ground he realized that it had been more than a little due to nothing but chance that they had reached the bottom in safety. From the yard the great stone walls were sheer and seemed unscaleable; but perhaps this illusion had served them well, for they were now inside the very castle of their enemies, and were still unseen.
But the yard was not a safe place, they both knew, and every step they took deeper into the castle was a leap more into danger. If the soldiers were alerted now, it was certain death; not the power of a dozen sorcerers could hope to prevail against a garrison of four hundred armed troops. And so they made their way along the walls with all due haste and secrecy, ever with a watchful glance to the battlements. Ahead, at the far end of the wide courtyard, rose the great keep. It alone would in most lands have been thought to be a mighty fortress, for it was many towered and its gate was wrought of oak and steel. Near unassailable by any force of might; yet Crono and Serge were not coming with force, but with guile. And no fortress can fully defend against the subtle cunning of a sharp and determined mind that seeks entrance by stealth.
So it was that they shunned the great door, knowing well that to come to it would mean certain failure. Rather they clung to the shadows like some light forlorn creatures of the night, taking wary glances about the yard and to the silent battlements. Swiftly they came to the corner where the keep met the outer wall, and the shadows were deepest. Here, in the night, Serge could dimly see the shape of a door. Crono needlessly nodded towards it, proclaiming it their entrance.
"Porre wouldn't leave it unlocked, would they?" Serge asked coming up behind Crono.
With a click Crono moved the latch to the side.
"Certainly not," he said with a smile. "But this fortress is one thousand years old, and there are many mysteries about this castle they do not yet know. This door will always open at the bidding of the true king."
He nodded in the direction of the great doors.
"And a side door is ever so much better than the main gate," Crono whispered, pushing it open. "Most especially when you are assured to be welcomed with death."
They slunk inside, being cautious lest an enemy happened to be there. But the room inside, a cavernous hall filled with old barrels and store, was empty of men.
"This is a huge castle," Serge said when the door was shut safely behind them. "Who built it? I thought only the ancient Dragons could build like this."
Crono shook his head.
"Then you are mistaken, for this is without doubt the work of men. A thousand years ago, a commander of illustrious Rome led five legions West across the sea, and founded Guardia. He followed the new light of Christianity, and was disdainful of the conquest his emperor bade him embark upon. Persecuted for his belief, he fled with his faithful legions from the lands of Rome. You saw him yourself, in the tombs. This castle is a last testament to his dream, built with Roman skill. But if you think this is a grand thing, you have seen nothing."
Crono looked keenly about the room, searching for the far door; the Masamune had begun to shine once again.
"More than this?" Serge asked, wondering at what could possibly be grander than this fortress. "I find that hard to believe."
"There was once a land. One such as the world will never see again, thought it should last for a thousand, thousand centuries to come. I saw it once: Zeal the Beautiful, the greatest kingdom of men that shall ever be."
Serge nodded, understanding. He had heard Schala's tales, certainly. But her own stories were of a land she had known in her childhood, and had grown up in. Only later in her youth had it been destroyed, and she was forced to live in a world that could only ever be a shadow of what the old had been. But for Crono, born in a time that beside Zeal was as a fleck of dust next to gold, it must have been as if visiting paradise itself.
Perhaps some day Serge would hear Crono tell of it, and hear how it appeared to one whose eyes were unused to its splendour. But now was not the time. In the burning light of the Masamune they made their way silently through the chamber and out the far door.
Here was a long hall, thin and dark. From the walls a few torches flickered, but so far between that great lengths of the hall remained black in shadow. And from far rooms the sound of voices and laughter could be heard, reminding Serge that they were ever so near to danger.
"This way," Crono muttered, nodding to the right. "If we go left we would come to the guard rooms and barracks."
"And to the right the dungeons?" Serge added with a question. Crono nodded.
"I don't know which sounds better," Serge said, "Guards, or a dark jail."
"I counsel the jails," Crono answered, taking up a quick but light footed walk along the hall.
They reached the end of the hall soon enough, it being shorter than Serge had thought. At the far end the passage descended downward along a steep set of crumbling stairs. The torches that lined the walls were even fewer here, and it seemed that little thought was put into lighting them. But at least there was light enough to see their path, and the Masamune did not shine. Down they trode, cautious for broken stone, in a trek that seemed to be interminable. How far they descended, Serge could not tell. Certainly they were deeper than the catacombs, perhaps in a delving deeper than the foundations themselves. For when at last they stepped from the stair, the hall into which they came was no more than a simple tunnel in decay; the stonework was broken here and there, and dirt and roots struggled their way through. Two lone torches illumed the hall, and the light they gave was dim and ever on the verge of waning into blackness.
And here it was that they saw the first of the castle guards. A young dark haired man dressed in the simple and pristine blue and black attire of a sentry, and armed with a sheathed sabre and musket. His back was towards them as they came upon him, but he turned, hearing their footsteps behind.
Seeing the two upon him the guard stepped back in alarm, his hand grasping for his sword. But in his bewilderment he could not draw it in time; Crono had swept an arrow out, and held the bow ready to fire. He did not make for the deathstroke, however, but rather spoke.
"Ah, yes," Crono said. "This is a timely meeting. So then, guard, what do you say? Death is at your throat, but I will spare you that fate for now if you tell me where the Princess is being kept captive."
The soldier returned Crono's gaze, albeit with a startled fear in his eyes. But in Crono's face burned a keen anger. The bow quivered in his hands as he held the string taut in his fingers, poised and ready to fire the arrow which he now aimed at his enemy's heart. The Porre soldier knew that to try for either of his own weapons, which sat fastened to his side, was certain death. He stood frozen, daunted by the fiery eyes of his enemy.
Crono glared, his eyes darkening.
"Where is she being held?" he snarled, the words coming viciously from him in echo of his mind.
The soldier opened his mouth as if to answer. For a moment it seemed that the vehement tongue in which Crono spoke had achieved its end. But, seemingly weighing fear against his allegiance to Porre, the man resolutely closed it again, and shook his head.
"Once more, where is she?!" Crono demanded with a certain mencace. It seemed as if a sharp wind had begun to sweep through the passage, a wind that chilled deeper than the skin. The torches wavered, and threatened to die.
"I can't say," the soldier stammered, unwilling to fail in his duty, but much afraid of the fell warrior that stared upon him with such dark eyes.
Crono scowled, seeing well the division in the soldier's heart. He did not have time to bandy words.
"Yes, yes you can. One last time I charge you, or you will most certainly die. Where is the Princess Nadia!"
But now it was to no avail. The soldier had regained what courage was his. And he was young and unused to things of war; he thought, to his great misjudgment, that his enemy would not strike him down. His bright eyes shining in the dark, he stood tall and proud, and most foolishly brave.
"You can't kill me. If you kill me, I can't tell you anything."
Crono glanced at Serge, such a look on his face that even Serge shuddered to see it.
"Yet better than alive. I gave him his chance."
The bow shuddered in Crono's hand and the arrow whistled shrilly through the air. At such range the soldier couldn't move aside and, indeed, did not even see his doom approach. The arrow rove him through the heart, and he dropped to the ground without a cry, his lifeblood staining his blue raiment red where the arrow had pierced him.
Serge stared at the dead man in surprise. He had not realized quite how ruthless Crono could be when the need drove him to it. Crono, for his part, did not even look at the body as he passed. He waved for Serge to follow him and advanced down the hallway, cautiously fitting another arrow to his bow. Serge did as Crono bade, glancing at the body of the young soldier with a sick heart. This guard was no different than he; a man barely out of boyhood, perhaps zealous to make those he knew proud of him. But a single shaft of wood had ended it. Crono had done it with such unfeeling coldness, as if to take such a life was a little matter, and that didn't sit well with Serge's mind. Not lightly, at the least. Crono wasn't the same person now that he had known before, the bright eyed warrior, young of heart, that he had spoken with during their sea crossing. He was changed, and his mood with him. He was fell now, dark and deadly when angered, and a weight of responsibility had descended upon him. His eyes showed this much: he was not somebody to be crossed.
"Crono, you didn't have to do that you know," Serge muttered.
Crono slowly turned to face Serge.
"Yes, perhaps," he whispered as if repenting of the arrow he had fired. "But I'm in haste, and I won't brook any delays. You heard yourself what is said: Marle is to be executed at dawn. And I could not simply let him go to tell of us, that is certain."
True enough, but it did little to allay Serge's worry over his friend's mood. Such vehemence was rarely for the best.
Crono pointed to a small door recessed in the shadows at the side of the hallway.
"Come, this is the door to the passages."
He slung his bow over his shoulder and reached for the latch.
"Pray it's unlocked," he added.
He stepped up to the door, and turning the handle gave a shove. The door creaked open on a pair of ancient hinges, opening upon a very dark and dismal looking passage of stone.
"Somewhat dark," Crono muttered. "Leave the Masamune on your back; if you carry it will burden you if it comes to a race, which might well be. Serge, grab a torch."
Serge nodded, and removed a burning torch from a place on the wall.
"Crono?"
"Yes, what is it Serge?" he asked, stepping into the shadowed passage.
"What do we do now? We have no clue where Marle is being held."
Crono shook his head.
"I know. I know. But there are other ways. We'll try for the execution chamber. We can wait there for her to arrive. Then we'll see who is put to death," he added grimly. "Come."
He led the way into the dark passage, but let Serge pass as it was he who held the torch aloft in his hand.
They continued on in stealth, speaking little for, though the tunnels they crept through were seldom used be Porre soldiers, they knew that seldom was hardly never. And it took but one soldier to raise the entire fortress against them.
The stone walls flickered yellow in the burning light of the torch that Serge carried. These parts of the castle were old, nearly as ancient as the catacombs, built before the magnificent spires that rose on the outside were raised. And with every step he had to watch his footing, being careful not to stumble on loose flagstones.
"Hey Crono!" Serge whispered, the dusty air choking his lungs, "You sure that we are going the right way?"
Crono didn't turn, but continued to walk, whispering in response.
"Yes, yes. This is the right way. It's the long way, no doubt. But we are nearing the dungeons..."
"Positive?" Serge asked, not quite as sure as Crono.
"Without a doubt. See ahead?" he asked.
In the dim amber torchlight that flickered faintly on the walls and tunnel ahead Serge could just see the faint outline of a door.
"That door," Crono continued, "leads to the lowest prisoner cells. I myself was once locked in here myself, near on twenty years ago."
Serge almost laughed, but caught himself.
"You? Before you were prince, I'm sure."
"Yes, of course. The charge was, if I remember it correctly, kidnapping the princess."
He chuckled softly.
"Strange how fate twists such things in the end, is it not?"
They reached the door. A massive oak and steel monstrosity that Serge sincerely hoped was unlocked. Its blackened metal seemed almost indestructible.
"So what happened to you?"
"A tale for another time, my friend. We are in a hurry. Sufficed to say I escaped, and..."
He gave a sturdy push to the door but, to Serge's dismay, it did not move.
"Eternal curses, it is locked." Crono muttered.
"Any other ways?" Serge questioned quietly.
Crono shook his head.
"Not unless you want to march straight across the throne room. That would be somewhat conspicuous, I believe..."
He knelt, examining the door closely.
"The door is meant to keep prisoners in. See the hinges? They're on this side."
Serge reached for them to try to loosen them, but Crono laid hold of his arm, shaking his head.
"But then again, this door has not been used for decades, in all likelihood. There is no way you are going to pull that bolt out. We have only one thing we can do."
Serge frowned, beginning to fear where Crono was leading.
Crono meanwhile examined the door further. Then he stood, and closed his eyes in thought.
"Very well then. It is as I feared. We cannot open this door of our own strength, and the bolts would take far too long to draw out. We must blast the doors."
"What?!" Serge whispered urgently, glancing at Crono and hoping that it was some ill timed joke. It was not. This was not what he had wanted to hear.
"Won't that bring the whole castle down upon us?" he asked with rising concern. Here, after being so furtively silent and ever warning against raising the castle, Crono was counselling them to do a rash thing.
Crono chuckled, looking about at the stone walls that enclosed them.
"Yes, it likely will. Or at least all the prison guards in this area. The mazes of halls will slow them, but not for long. That is why we must make haste. I think I remember the way to the execution chambers, though it was some fifteen years ago when I last saw them. But if we can gain them without being spotted, they will never think to look for us there. Then we wait. Are you ready?"
Serge nodded. He certainly wasn't, but knew that there would be no advantage in waiting.
Crono stepped back a pace. Closing his eyes he put his outstretched fingers on the door. Even from below their closed lids, Serge could see Crono's eyes burned with light. And at that instant the door, in a flash of light and a crack of thunder, shuddered and flew backward in pieces with a deafening crash of splintering wood and twisting metal.
Serge rubbed his ears, attempting to stop the ringing.
"Aha!" Crono laughed. "Now what stands in our way? Follow me!"
Serge, still gripping the burning torch tightly, took off in a sprint following Crono. Indeed it appeared as if Crono knew these dungeons quite well. He wove this way and that, through hallways and doorways, up stairs and over walkways that spanned deep pits that seemed bottomless. These lower prisons seemed as a castle themselves, and Serge wondered if they were not the remains of an older fortress yet, put to a different use when a newer had been built above. He could not imagine so grand a dungeon would be needed by any castle.
Not a guard did they see in these deep parts of the jails, yet from other halls and passages above he could now hear the heavy footfalls of soldiers drawing ever nearer, echoing along the stone labyrinths.
"This way, Serge!" Crono gasped, shortly for lack of breath, and took a turn up a dark set of spiral stairs. Serge followed, his legs beginning to weary, yet spurred ever on by the sound of the soldiers close behind.
At the top of the stairs, Serge was ready to collapse. Indeed Crono too looked overtaxed by their flight, nearly faltering, yet knew that his pursuers were nearly upon them, and did not stop.
He whispered to Serge with all the breath he could spare.
"We are almost there. Around this turn are the chief execution chambers..."
They rounded the corner, but started in alarm. Two Porre soldiers faced them, muskets drawn and aimed at them. Acting faster than he could think Serge leaped to the ground as the pair of weapons fired in unison, the blast of noise deafening his ears. He felt the bullets streak to either side of him and glance off the wall behind him with a crack of splintering stone.
Their guns now fired and useless the guards threw them aside and drew their sabres. Yet such slender weapons, though swift and deadly in their own right, are no match for such a sword as was now placed against them, for Crono was upon them in a heartbeat, the curved blade of his sword sweeping swiftly from its scabbard. With a snap of splitting steel Crono shore one of the blades off clean at the guard, and drove the Rainbow through the man's chest before the surprised guard could even contemplate his death. Seeing this the other guard turned to run, but was felled as the Rainbow struck him in the back, flying from Crono's hand as a lance.
As Crono retrieved his bloodied sword, Serge wearily stumbled to his feet from where he had fallen. He had expected to have aided Crono in the fight, but his friend had proved all too swift and efficient. Truly here was a master warrior, Serge thought grimly, seeing for the first in true battle both the peerless skill in swordplay and grim calm that Crono bore. But still he was half glad that it had been Crono, and not he, that had to killed the men.
"Serge, are you hit?" Crono asked urgently, seeing Serge's difficulty in rising.
Serge shook his head.
"Kind of a close call, but no. Just, exhausted..."
"Well, don't give up yet, for this is only beginning. Here, this is the door to the chamber," Crono said, pointing to an iron barred door that was nearly hidden in a dark recess in the wall.
Behind them, from the bottom of the stairwell, Serge heard the yells of the guards as they strove to find the two.
"Quickly, Serge!" Crono whispered, pushing the door open on rusted hinges and leaping into the dark interior. Serge followed an instant later, shutting the door even as the guards came upon the hallway. From the sightless interior of the grim chamber of death, the two could hear the angry shouts of the guards as they found their slain comrades.
"How did they get in without us seeing? There wasn't any alert from the walls," one asked, a very noticeable tone of fear in his voice.
"I don't care," another responded with more surety, who was likely the commander of the troop, "They won't interfere with the execution."
"Do you think that's why they've come? To rescue that princess?" another voice responded.
There was no reply from the other man at first, and it seemed to Serge that he paced around outside the door.
"Whatever they may want," the commander finally said, "all stations are on alert. They can't go anywhere without being spotted."
Serge expected the others to reply to this. Instead the sound of more footsteps in the hall echoed into the pitch room.
"Serge!" Crono whispered. "To the back of the chamber, and make haste!"
Trusting to luck that some sharp instrument of death would not find him, he crept cautiously toward the back of the room.
The room even smelled of death, Serge though with a shiver. The stench of dry blood was thick in the air. It sickened him to even imagine what horrible mechanical contrivances sat about them, existing for the sole purpose of killing prisoners.
Even as they gained the far wall the iron door swung open, the ancient hinges straining once with age. The sudden light, dim though it was, caused Serge a momentary blindness. But as his vision cleared, he saw that Crono had been correct in this as in all else.
A dozen men had walked into the room. Thankfully, Serge saw, their hiding place was amidst the shadows and well out of sight of those who had just entered. Four of these were guards, he noted as they marched in. Between them they led in a figure, whom he assumed was the princess Marle. He stole a glance over at Crono. A grim look of wrath burned in his face and eyes, and he soundlessly muttered curses at his enemies now before them. But as of yet he made no movement nor sound, and Serge likewise remained as a shadow awaiting to spring.
Now in the light, Serge could see them better. Though he had never seen her before, he could be sure the one they had brought in was the princess. And though her fair regal features were marred by countless welts and cuts, and for clothes she bore only the grey raiment of a prisoner, her beauty was still great. Her golden hair hung in disarray to her shoulders; no soil could mar its shimmering glow in the torchlight. And though she was now on the very threshold of death, her eyes were every bit as fiery as Crono's own. The dark hatred they bore for those who held her captive was only outmatched by her husband's. As the men brought her forward to the guillotine she gave no struggle, but bore herself proudly as she sat down upon its table.
One of the men, a bearded old official who appeared to be a magistrate or judge of a sort, was arrayed in long black gowns traced in gold emboss and embroidered red velvet, and now began to speak:
"Princess Nadia, you have been found by trial and law guilty of the crime of treason. In accordance with our laws, your full sentence shall now be carried out. In reverence to our ancient edicts, you may speak before you are put to death. Do you wish to do so?"
For an instant Serge thought she would not speak. Her mouth remained resolutely closed, her fiery eyes darting vicious glances about at her captors. Then, on a sudden, either by chance or by some unseen bond, her eyes alighted on the very place where Crono lay hidden. But she let her gaze fall for only a brief moment, and she lifted her eyes once more to those who stood before her.
"Yes," she said boldly, in a voice of surpassing beauty.
The magistrate nodded for her to continue.
"Twenty years ago, when I was but a young maiden, a strange thing occurred. At the great fair celebrating the one thousandth year of this land of Guardia, I chanced upon someone. By fate, maybe, I ran into a young boy who named himself Crono. He was brave, fearless, and most assuredly hot headed."
As she said this, Serge could almost imagine he heard Crono stifle a chuckle.
"But in time he would become my defender who never abandoned me, though at times even death seemed assured. Through harrowing dangers I went, and he was always there, by my side."
Now rising from the table on which she sat, she began to pace as much as her bindings would allow. The guards made no effort to stop her in this, perhaps amazed at her sudden strength.
"I married this boy. At our wedding he swore to me that no danger would keep us apart, and that whatever would follow, he would be at my side."
"He isn't here now, princess," one of the guards said with a cruel laugh, plainly tiring of the speech.
"Let me finish!" she replied, cowing the man into silence. "We have both since grown, but never have I doubted that promise he made to me, years ago."
She paused slowly, and fixed a such a vicious smile upon the magistrate that he took a step backward.
"And he," she said, raising her voice to a mocking cry, "who has been the death of so many of your people shall now be your doom as well!"
And even as these last words escaped her lips, Serge knew that their moment was upon them. Behind him he heard the sound of a sword hastily drawn. Even as he leapt from his hiding place, Crono sprung from his own. Before any of the guards could even lay hold of their weapons the Rainbow flashed in the air between Marle and the guards, and with death-choked cries two fell at once with cut throats. As another bore up his musket, locking the flint to fire, the Rainbow swept a deadly edge across his chest, and he too fell with death-enshrouded eyes. The fourth guard, seeing his comrades felled in but a moment by what seemed to his eyes a wraith of shadows, broke for the door. Yet even as he came to the threshold a lance of lightning echoed like a gunshot in the dim-lit room. For a moment it was as daylight, and when it passed the last of the guards fell lifeless at the threshold to the door.
This Serge all watched with supreme wonder for, to his mind, no more than seconds had passed, and already Crono had killed all of the guards. As of yet Serge had yet to make a stroke of his own, and stood unsure in the darkness. In some corner of his heart he felt loath to strike down another human, regardless of how just his cause was, even as Crono had so rightly guessed. Before his eyes he saw the chief executioner, black hooded and faceless, fall with a sundered heart even as he reached for a sword. Ruthlessly Crono cut down all those in the chamber, armed or not. The magistrate, seeing all of those of his company fall to the blade dancing firelike in the dim light, stepped back a few paces in fear, drawing near to where Serge stood.
Then Serge saw him reach beneath his robes. In sudden bold defiance of Crono's skilful slaughter he brought out a musket even as Crono turned his back to him to cut down another soldier, thinking the man weaponless and harmless. The magistrate levelled the weapon for Marle, and with a cruel smile pulled the trigger. Yet then, if but for a moment, Serge cast all of his doubts aside. The Masamune flashed in his hands, and the shot which should have taken Marle's life recoiled harmlessly off the wall as the magistrate fell with a bloodied face to a swift sweep of the Serge's sword.
Crono turned about in alarm upon hearing the weapon fire, for a fleeting moment fearing that it had struck Marle. But upon seeing Serge, blood edged sword in hand, he smiled.
"Many thanks," he breathed hoarsely, sweeping his sword about to parry a heavy blow that the final man dealt him.
But it was a hopeless act for the soldier to stand up to one so grim and fell as Crono was now. In two strokes Crono had disarmed and slain his foe.
Crono now took thought to Marle, who had all the while stood still, being yet bound.
"Crono," she said as he flung his bloodied sword back into its scabbard. "At last. You're somewhat late in coming."
"Have I done anything but at the brink of doom?" he asked with a smile as he swept out a knife and cut her bindings.
She paused before replying, stumbling as she stood from where she had sat.
"No, not that I can remember," she muttered as he helped her to her feet.
"Are you alright?" he asked with grave concern, seeing her bruised and battered features.
"As fine as ever I was," she said with a small smile. "We've both taken worse injury."
She looked about the room. A dozen men lay dead about her feet, the very same who had sought to end her life but minutes earlier.
"Ah, you've avenged me harshly, Crono," she whispered.
"For you, I would kill a thousand," Crono replied. "Can you stand?"
She winced in obvious pain, but her will had the mastery of her body, and she stood slowly of her own strength.
"Can you mend yourself?" he asked, his concern not lessening.
She shook her head wearily.
"No, I don't think so. Not strength for that," she replied, her voice descending to a murmur.
She stepped forward a pace, but faltered in a faint. Crono caught her as she dropped, easing her to the ground.
"What have they done to you?" he muttered, his eyes flashing. "Serge?"
Serge stepped over, kneeling at Crono's side.
"Is she alright?" he asked. He could see she was breathing, though lightly. In the dim light of the half open door he could see that her face was marred by many wounds. All told she looked terrible.
"Porre did that to her?" Serge said, aghast at such treatment, even of a prisoner.
"Their cruelty is only outmatched by their power, Serge," Crono replied, glancing up quickly.
"Marle! Awake!" Crono whispered, tenderly running his hand across her forehead.
Her eyes darted open, and she sat up so swiftly that Serge started.
"Curses," she snarled. "I've been too weak."
She leaped to her feet, steadying herself on Crono's shoulders.
"What are things come to?" she asked with urgency. "What has happened while I've been gone?"
Crono shook his head, standing and placing his hands on her shoulders.
"Not now, Marle. Later. I'll tell you everything when we escape. And we must be careful; you are injured."
She glanced about herself, her eyes darting for a moment on Serge who knelt still on the ground, contemplating the two.
"Who is this?"
"Serge of El Nido, a hero no less than we," Crono answered.
"El Nido?" she wondered, taking a closer look. "Has the West risen up as well?"
"Later, Marle," Crono admonished. "But take heart, beloved. The days we have long hoped for are coming."
She nodded, understanding their need for flight. Her usually keen wits had been dulled somewhat by her injuries, and a feverish state was upon her mind. She shook her head, but it was unavailing in clearing her thoughts.
"You need rest," Crono answered. "We must be slow in our escape," he said, turning to Serge, "I cannot risk her further injury."
"Do not be concerned too much about me," Marle said, her eyes for a moment clearing somewhat. "Listen!"
The castle was raised. A distant bell tolled, its ringing coming to their ears even through the rocks of the deep prison. Their rescue had gone mostly unnoticed too long, and their fortunes had begun to turn even as they achieved their end.
"Quickly now, we cannot wait for another moment!" she said urgently, her voice hoarse. Crono looked at her dismayed, seeing well that her injuries pained her greatly, and she was nearly in a swoon again. He stepped forward to contest that it would be better for her if they would slowly slip into the shadows and eventually make for their secret entrance. But she silenced his unspoken words with a wave of her hand.
"Listen!" she breathed. "The guards will be here soon. Speed is our only chance. And I charge you as my husband to listen to me and trust me; I can make it this far at least."
"Marle," Crono began, distressed at her adamant will that seemed to fully disregard her own well-being.
"Trust me!" she repeated, her voice a hoarse whisper.
Crono saw it was moot to argue. Her will was unyielding, and nothing he could say, he knew, would sway her counsel when she had decided on something.
He nodded to Serge, who understood. Her commands they would have to abide by, for it seemed that she was more headstrong than he had come to know even of Leena.
The three crept from the room, Crono muttering curses on the chamber as they left.
"Quickly, quickly!" Marle urged, her head darting from side to side in apprehension of the sound of approaching soldiers.
They ran. With all the strength they had they raced down the steps, and through the forsaken halls, being glad to be leaving rather than coming. Perhaps had Marle not been so weary and injured their flight would have been swifter but, as it was, they were quick. They passed the shattered door. They ran down the halls and up the long flight of stone stairs, coming to the last hall that led to the courtyard.
But here, they found, their luck in evading their pursuers had failed them. Not all had taken up the chase into the prisons, and some at least it seemed had guessed whereby their attackers might attempt to escape. At the far end of the hall stood two soldiers, steel blades drawn.
"Halt, traitors!" one cried, though he stepped back a few paces as he said it, his voice faltering. It was obvious that they had not reckoned with such foes as the three were. Crono once again drew his sword, its shimmering blade still besmirched with blood. But he was not the first to strike, nor yet the second. Serge, having killed once, and knowing what need was upon them now, leaped for the first man. The soldier had the first blow, but only succeeded in striking the haft of the Masamune. With a swift turn of one blade Serge cut him across his throat, and he fell to the ground with faltering cry. As for the second soldier, it had seemed to Serge that it fell upon Crono to fight him. But quicker even than he was Marle, wounded as she was. The silver blade swept through the air, but swifter than a chased hare that escapes the hunter she stepped aside, the sword coming within a hairs breadth of her neck. And the soldier had certainly not judged that an unarmed woman could so deftly avoid his stroke. It was a grave mistake. Her hand struck out for his face, causing the man to stumble, his sword slipping from his forgotten grip. Out of his weakening fingers she snatched it, and drove it through him.
Crono ran up at once, ill tempered over her actions.
"You should not strain yourself!" he hissed between his teeth. "If you were to die, I could not outlive you by a day. I would never forgive myself over your death."
Her eyes glanced fire at him, but she also saw that it was truly out of love that he said this, and nothing else. And so she relented.
"Very well," she murmured. "But I can't just stand by and watch you fight without doing anything."
"Let us hope there is no more fighting for any of us," Crono said, crossing the store chamber, and looking anxiously out the far door. The expanse of courtyard that he could see, the part that led along the wall to the cathedral, was devoid of soldiers.
"Blessed fortune!" Marle said, creeping to the door. "It looks like they're all looking for us in the wrong place."
Crono still glanced furtively about, taking a few testing steps into the yard.
"The fools," he said, a smile coming to his face. "They hear the alarm and race to the dungeons!"
He took a glance up the walls, his eyes squinting in the darkness.
"Even the battlements here are deserted. It is safe."
Trusting to his sight that he had not mistakenly thought the yard safe, they sprinted across as swiftly but quietly as they could. There were no eyes watching them now, but that did not mean that there might not be a sudden guard at any moment.
Coming to the shadows under the great buttresses of the cathedral Crono once again looked about with fearful eyes. Certainly there must be guards now, he thought. But Porre had made a dire mistake, it seemed, and recalled most of their soldiers to the keep.
"Are we going yet, Crono?" Marle asked curiously, following his eyes from deserted corner to forsaken wall.
"This cannot be," Crono muttered worriedly. "Have we ever known Porre to be this foolish?"
Marle looked at him uncertainly.
"Marle, have we ever?" he repeated. "This is a trap. I dare say that there are soldiers watching, only we cannot see them. We were the fools to try this far across to the cathedral. But we have been fortunate fools, I think. Yet it would not last a second time."
"Are you sure?" Serge asked, glancing now nervously to the dark corners. Were there truly soldiers there waiting for them to reveal themselves?
"Certainly. The alarms are silenced. No bells toll. The commanders of our enemies are clever. I half think this is the doing of that friend of yours Norris. Very like to that trap that he devised, is it not Marle?"
Marle nodded grimly.
"When all seemed like it was safe, it wasn't. Just an escape that led into a trap," she said, following with a line of curses. She then paused, looking up at Serge with a strange eye.
"He is a friend of Norris?" she asked, suspicion rising in her voice.
"Yes, once," Crono answered urgently. "But I assure you he is to be trusted. Now is not the time for this," he added. "We have but come half way. Now we must make good our escape."
Crono looked up at the high pinnacles of the keep, glaring with a menacing eye upon the high roof of a tower.
"And now we but need draw their eyes away, if only for a minute," he said grimly.
He closed his eyes, circling his hands about each other. In his palms a sphere of lightning began to play, arcing in lambent tendrils along his arms.
His eyes shot open.
He gathered the sorcery to one palm and stretched the hand towards the tower. The sphere, seeming as a flickering star, hurtled through the air. With a thunderous roar it struck the wooden roof of the tower. A hole shattered open and the timbers burst into roaring flames. All about, from the yard and battlements, fresh cries of alarm rose up. In the fear of fire the escaping traitors were all but forgotten, and none noticed the three shadows slip through the great doors into the cathedral. When at last all fear of fire was gone the commanders cursed with dismay. Their intruders had come and gone, leaving only a trail of death and ruin, and a failed execution. What this now meant, few fully understood. Only a few dared whisper that dark fear: war was coming.
For indeed things were occurring all according to Crono's will. They had defied chance and an empire. Their daring plan had succeeded, and all their ways were turning out well. Fate was on their side, and the future looked the better now that the princess was with them. For now Marle was rescued, snatched from the jaws of death as they snapped shut upon her, and rebellion could be planned.
ON THE HISTORY OF GUARDIA
The date of the founding of Guardia is traditionally set to the year 0, to coincide with the birth of Christ. In truth, however, the Tribune Septimus Aurelius did not embark on his westward sail until the reign of the Emperor Caligula, in the year 40AD. The reason for this misrepresentation is that the people of early Guardia, being predominantly Christian, considered their land to be one of refuge, or guard, for believers, hence its name. Furthermore they held true Guardia as being the fellowship of believers, not the worldly land. It seemed only fitting, therefore, to set the establishing year to that of the birth of their High Lord, signifying that Guardia along with Christendom had been truly born in the year of their Savior's birth. Over the centuries this antique sign of reverence was all but forgotten, and it was generally, though mistakenly, assumed by most that the land of Guardia had been in existence since the year 0.
This assumption that Guardia is a Christian land is based on the years being measured according to BC and AD, standing respectively for Before Christ and Anno Domini. The second bears the Latin meaning of: "In the year of our Lord." It is unlikely that the years would be measured in such a way had not Guardia been for at least some years a largely Christian land.
(Last Edited August 28, 2004)