CHAPTER XI

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.

4

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 Masamune."

"The Masamune?" 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 Masamune 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 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 Masamune 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."

ON THE STARSWORDS

It is said by Janus that only the greatest of the captains of Zeal held the swords. 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.

(Last Edited August 28, 2004)