CHAPTER XIII
THE BATTLE AT THE FIELDS OF TRUCE
It was daybreak, and the dew was shining like gems on the long grass of the plain, as the sunlight greeted the earth with a new day. In the eastern sky the wisps of cloud burned in many marvellous hues as the sun rose above the horizon. A matchless beauty, perhaps, as it signalled rebirth, and hope. Yet, on this day, few there were noticed its magnificent splendour, for battle was at hand on the plains.
The previous few days had been fraught with negotiation and parlay between the commanders of Porre and Guardia. All of these had failed, for while Guardia would not yield to anything less than the absolute of all the armies of Porre, neither would the Empire willingly abandon their occupation of the land. And so it was that it had been vehemently decided that they should decide matters through war, and that battle should take place on the fields of Truce.
From his place where he stood at the front of the left battalion Serge could clearly hear the endless beat of the war drums echoing from behind. It stirred his heart.
Around him near to one thousand men stood ready. Crono had placed no less than an entire army of his people under Schala's hand, and Serge was to be her herald and lieutenant, and this did not rest easily upon him. For he wasn't certain that he was prepared for the charge laid upon him. But at the least he wasn't alone. Schala, his commander in this battle, was at his side. She, at least, appeared to be confident and unafraid. Though this might well have been but an appearance, for she usually seemed so, whatever she truly felt, as is becoming of a good leader.
She was arrayed in robes of deep azure that shimmered as she moved, but fashioned in such a way that allowed her to be fleet and lithe, as was ever her desire. Across her shoulders was draped an elegant cloak of like material that fell down to well below her knees. She was shod now in light leather boots that reached nearly to her knees and, as Serge, she wore no helm. Her golden hair, however, she had dyed with tongues of crimson so that it appeared as if her very hair was on fire as it moved. No open armour did she display, neither shield nor even mail such as those in Guardia were wont to wear. As for weapons she carried her beloved dagger at her left hip, the jasper in the hilt twinkling slightly in the rising sun. On her right was fastened a short sword she had begged from a master blacksmith. Though well forged it was by no means an exceptional weapon. It was steel from tip to pommel, with only the mark of the smith adorning it. The hilt was of wood and leather, as might be expected of such a weapon. Moreover, it was an odd thing for her to bear, for she had not often carried such weighty weapons into battle. Serge glanced at her, slight apprehension of the fast approaching battle still skipping through his heart.
"Nervous, Serge?" she asked with a dim smile.
He nodded somewhat.
"This is my first field battle," he answered. "I've never seen anything like this before."
She looked at him with understanding and said:
"And you pray it to not be your death. I know how you feel. I too have never fought such a battle."
She looked about warily, making sure all but Serge were out of earshot and added:
"I'm nervous and frightened as hell, mate. But without fear there can't be courage, can there? Just wish these Porre blokes would get on with it." She looked with a darkening stare to the far fields. "What's takin them so bloody long?"
The shadow of a smile then crossed her at this sudden shift in mood and speech, as she then unsheathed her dagger and looked keenly at it, its silver blade glinting sharply in the sunlight.
"Check your sword also, Serge. Are they prepared for this?"
And there she was speaking so differently again. He had been in her company for near to a month and a half now, and her occasional disparity in tone and mood still caught him sharply. At one moment she might be speaking as though she were yet Kid, the girl by whose name he still called her. But then, a moment later she was the regal princess Schala. And it was near always the latter, he had soon seen with some sadness. He missed the carefree girl he had known once as his best of friends.
He swept the Masamune, which lay fastened over his back, into his grip. Like to Kid he wore near to nothing in the way of armour. Still he donned his tarnished coat of mail, but if it came to arrows or swordstrokes it would be of no help to him. And so he must trust to his skill, he knew. Whatever that might amount to.
As his hand fastened tight upon the leather hilt of his sword, he heard the echo of speech in his mind, saying:
"Now here is one who is nervous. Do you fear the battle, my master?"
But of course Masa knew the answer to that question. In the form of the question he knew it to be Masa, the elder and stronger of the two brethren spirits, whose will was the strength of the sword.
"You don't have anything to worry about, though," he replied in a low whisper. "Win or lose, live or die, you don't have anything to fear."
"I wouldn't say so," came the whispered reply of a gentler voice. "Swords can be broken just as human wills. And if the wicked wield us, that can be a terrible thing to endure, I assure you. Remember that the lives you take and the blood you spill this day will be on our account no less than on yours, for it is we who must drink the lifeblood of others on this field. But to this purpose we were born, and so will not argue the design of our creator. And so neither should you, though it be a fate of death that is measured out for you; none can see the full purpose their lives hold. Wield us well, and wisely, and remember your purpose and mortality with a keen mind."
And lastly the womanly voice of Selinirë said: "But we wish you well this day. Know that we hold your fate as dearly as our own. Many a tear we should shed, if you perish."
Serge slipped his weapon over his shoulder with a sigh. The wisdom which Mune had given him was not all that comforting.
"Serge," Schala said slowly. "I begin to wonder what news there is of Porre. They're taking frightfully long to march here. Perhaps Crono knows something I do not. I recall he sent out scouts near to an hour ago. Go and ask him of their report. As for me, I fear something in this, so I myself am going to scout, and see what I can discover."
Serge nodded to her will, and took off in a sprint towards the front central lines where Crono stood.
At the last Schala called after him: "And tell him to be wary off Porre and their guiles. They are hardly fools!"
It wasn't all too far, and he was thankful to be allowed some movement. It cleared his mind.
He found Crono standing at the very front, striding here and there at the head of his troops, seemingly lost deep in his contemplations. At his side stood Janus, leaning on a great reaping scythe, a grim look of excitement in his dark eyes. Here was one who did not seem the least bit concerned over the chances of the coming battle. Indeed he seemed more than a little eager, which was hardly a surprise.
Crono finally saw Serge approaching, and glanced upward with a smile.
"Ah, Serge," Crono greeted him. "What are you doing here? Is there something that concerns you or Schala?"
"She sent me. She was getting worried and sent me to ask if the scouts have returned yet."
Crono shook his head, concern crossing his features.
"That was the object of my thoughts just now. No, not of yet, and that worries me. I fear Porre may be attempting some guileful strategy. Perhaps they will try to flank us. Though I don't know how they possibly could; to manoeuver an entire army so unseen would be a near impossible task."
Janus strode over, as powerful seeming as Serge had ever seen him be. Arrayed now in full battle armour, he seemed indeed mighty, and Serge saw why so many had mortally feared him once. His long crimson cape billowed out behind him like monstrous wings, and his hair, violet streaked with raven, stirred in the morning breeze. His face was that of one not to be trifled with, rent with the shadows of many scars, and unshaven in many days. In his left hand he gripped his great scythe, and his form recalled the medieval icons of some dark terror. Under his right arm he held clutched an evil looking helm of black, marked with runes in some forgotten script.
"So, to you had fallen the duty of errand boy, has it?" he laughed, his voice sharp as the crisp morning air.
"It appears so" Serge replied, absently.
Janus squinted in the morning light.
"Where is my sister; I cannot see her."
"She left. To scout on her own," Serge answered.
Crono sighed.
"Fair enough. By her sorceress skills she's most certainly a better scout than those I sent out. But it is unwise to leave your men leaderless, even for a short while. You should likely return now, before they begin to miss their commander."
Serge nodded.
"Good luck Crono, and you too Janus."
As Serge left them, he heard Janus yell out after him, grim laughter in his voice, crying:
"Luck? I do not need it. I forge my own fate!"
But Serge had no peace as he returned to his position for, at the moment in which he arrived, Schala returned. She approached Serge slowly, yet he could read the utter urgency in her eyes.
"Do not worry the men. Let us talk as though nothing is amiss," she admonished quietly as she reached him. Her robes were now streaked with mud and grass, and her face bore marks of earth, showing that indeed something grave had happened.
She wiped her brow with her sleeves and looked towards where Crono stood.
"I don't know how they have done it, but we have near to half the Porre army on our left flank. I would assume a similar battalion is even now on our right."
"What?" Serge demanded urgently. He must have heard her wrong. "But our scouts would have told us."
"Our scouts are dead to the man. I found one, though it is better not to speak of it. I hardly returned alive myself. Those magicians they have are a tricky bunch. Somehow they've almost managed to close in about us. It appears that they have not a few masters of illusion within their ranks. From the Black Wind, or else Mystics."
"I'll go tell Crono!" Serge replied, and started to run off once again. But Schala laid hold of his arm, staying him.
"I will go; of what I saw, I must tell him myself. Stay here, and get prepare to order an about face."
Serge's heart chilled. What little confidence he had had now faded away. And what ill fortune with which to begin the day. He watched Schala leave, doubt chilling his heart with ice.
Behind him the soldiers began to murmur, having indeed noticed something amiss.
"Calm!" Serge yelled out, surprising himself at how suddenly and loudly he spoke the words. Schala had only half made it to Crono when a great battle horn sounded to the West. And then, as if appearing from a lifting mist, he saw in the far distance the armies of Porre. He espied the glint of steel, and heard the beat of drums. The magic had lifted, and battle was at the doorstep.
"Turn to face!" he called out, running to the far West of the lines as swiftly as he could. At his command, the army turned. Divisions and battalions rearranged, and fell once more into orderly array. And, glancing both in front and behind, his heart nearly gave way at a sudden thought: here he stood, between one army that would defend him, fighting at his command, and another that would seek his death. Two thousand for, three thousand against. And then Schala was at his side again, and his thoughts calmed for the time.
To the east Schala's news had dismayed Crono. It was a more clever move than any he had looked for. And now they would at needs fight a battle on two sides; a grim prospect, but it could not now be undone. He spurred his horse to the East, and called out for the men to turn likewise. Even as they had in the West, the armies reformed. Janus too followed.
And now, finally, the last pieces of the battle had been set. Crono placed a helm, set with the figure of a dragon upon his head, and vaulted up upon his horse. Turning it about, he faced his people with a determined gaze. He swept out his sword and flashed it high above his head.
"At long last shall Guardia be reborn!" he cried above the din of the gathered soldiers. All stopped to hear him speak.
"Fifteen years is a great span of time; so long have we suffered the occupation and troops of Porre. Yet now that time is ended, and we rise up in defiance of their fabled might. Let it be they that quake with fear this day. You know for what you fight, and your own wills are kindling enough to your zeal, and so no more need I say."
He paused somewhat, and to his side came Janus, now riding a horse as well. A great black steed: a perfect match for its master. From a place on the side of the horse hung his scythe, and he had now placed his dark helmet atop his head.
"Once I was your enemy, people of this land of Guardia. Today I am your friend. And now let your foes tremble, for at your side fights none other than Magus, once lord captain of Mystics. Forget your fear, and be bold," he said, his voice even, though echoing across the plain with his wizard's power.
Crono nodded.
"Let this day be their day of reckoning! Iustitia nostri signum est!" he cried, rallying the hearts of his people to his.
He turned his horse from the people and faced the distant plain. At the furthest end the armies of Porre were now appearing dimly, even as they had in the West. Crono spurred up his horse, raising his sword once more so that it caught the light of the sun.
"Guardia viva in aeternum!" he cried, brandishing his flashing sword about.
At these words a clamorous great cheer arose from the army, and they clashed their weapons to their shields with such noise that it seemed as if battle was already upon them.
Crono bore his sword before him. Today it would drink blood once again.
In the distance the unbroken line of soldiers, five score long and dozens deep, marched steadily towards the hosts of Guardia to the sound of endlessly beating wardrums. In response the Guardian heralds, at a shout from Crono, raised their great horns to their lips and blew a thunderous challenge that could be heard a hundred leagues distant. All at once the troops of Porre, as if daunted by that noise, stopped and, for an eternal moment, all was still and quiet. It seemed as if even the birds had stilled their songs, in apprehension of the coming storm of battle.
But, as suddenly as the quiet had come upon them, it ended. With a distant clatter the soldiers of Porre moved about, their archers taking their places in perfect time and order at a command from their captains.
"1st army, at my command!" Crono shouted, making certain his men could hear his voice. "Legion of the Crimson Hawk, form up! Shieldman, to the vanguard and take positions!"
With less precision, though no less zeal, than their Porre enemies, the men of Guardia slowly took up their battle positions under the skilful command of Crono. The division of shieldmen took the van, for they bore great shields, and were to provide a defence from the first volley of the enemy arrows. Behind them the Guardian archers readied themselves.
"Archers, at the ready!" Crono cried.
"Archers, at the ready!" The commanders of the bowmen repeated, in direct echo to Crono's words.
And now the battle began in force.
From far afield a thousand arrows lanced out. Darting with deadly speed from the ranks of Porre they rained down upon the gathered host of Guardia. Not a few bold warriors perished beneath those darts. Yet for the most part the shields of Guardia held fast and true, and the armies remained unmoved. And now Crono looked to his own stroke. Left and right he glanced, and nodded to his own leaders, with a look commanding them to their duties. He heard their cries echo down the ranks, calling all bowmen to once again make themselves ready.
"Archers! Men of the Serpent's Head, prepare yourselves. Those of the Waning Moon, draw your bows and take your aim. Hold steady. Do not falter. Loose arrows!"
A full two hundred men, bearing upon their banners and shields either the device of a fang bared snake, or of a crescent moon shining silver on a sable field, drew up their tall yew bows. The volley of arrows fled from the Guardian lines, coming down with upon the Porre army. These, however, had scarcely any heavy armour, and the shields they bore were small, so the stroke that was dealt them was a hard blow. From his mount Crono could see the foemen falling in scores before this dreadful rain. It lasted for but a moment, but left the ranks of Porre with a heavy toll.
The first stroke for Guardia, Crono thought with a smile. And a good one, indeed. May Porre long feel the blood of that strike, and know now the fury of Guardia avenged!
Crono saw that the enemy captains felt another such exchange would be too dire, for from his view atop his mount he could well see the hasty orders being given, and descried the sound of rallying trumpets. And his thoughts were proven true a moment later. With a beating of war drums the Porre legions took once more to the advance, albeit with more haste and less order. Crono faced down his approaching enemy, the resolve burning like a flame in his eyes, his keen desire for vengeance nearly mastering him. Now would Porre be too near for bowshot; now would the skirmish upon the field begin.
"Horseman and knights! Those of the company of the Sable Dragon, to my side!" he called, his voice unfaltering.
From the flanks riders that he had held ready reigned in their steeds to his side. No more than three score they numbered, and yet each heavily armed with swords and spears, and armour unmatched by any among Porre. Here they were worth ten on the ground, perhaps more. Upon their shields was emblazoned the truest emblem of their land, a black dragon with pinioned wings outstretched upon a field of crimson red. Among them a single banner flew high and proud, it too bearing a like symbol. For these, the knights, were of the highest order of warriors in the land; the sign of the country was theirs to bear.
"Today we fight together again. For the glory and freedom of Guardia!" Sir Hadrian said reigning in beside Crono with the speed of a skilled horseman. His armour, dull steel, clattered as he readied himself. Upon his head sat a mighty helm, its visor open. He appeared as a true knight of the old order. Brushing aside a lock of silver hair, he raised his hand in farewell.
"To you, I wish luck. May fate be on your side, my Lord."
With these parting words he shut his visor, and drew his great sword from its scabbard.
Crono nodded to him in affirmation.
"The same to you, old friend. May we drink to victory together tonight!"
Crono returned his gaze forward, seeing all his knights now ready. At his left Janus swept out his great scythe, holding the dread weapon in his iron grip. Crono thrust his sword forward through the air.
"Forward, without fear!" he cried, the age old warcry of the knights of Guardia.
With a thunderous roar the horsemen urged their steeds on. Behind, running with as swift a pace as they could gather, the hosts of Guardia followed.
And so began the battle known ever after as the Battle Upon the Plains.
Crono upon his horse tore into the midst of the enemy, sweeping apart their lines as a man running between tall grass. And even so came Janus, but holding firm his great scythe he came upon the armies as a reaper, and his swath was swift and fell, even as at the harvest the ripe wheat falls to the sickle. It was an onslaught more terrible than any those of Porre had looked for, having not accounted in a mere thirty horseman such a fury. But Crono could not be restrained in his wrath, and he went among the armies, high upon his steed, sweeping his blade where he would. And seldom it was that his blade failed to find blood.
But the generals were quick to muster their armies together again, and even as the lines of footmen met, and the battle began fully, they had regained their wits. The tide turned against Guardia even as it began, and Crono saw then that it would be no light thing to win the day. He reigned his horse about and saw Janus leaping from his steed, as a black winged bird of the night coming down as a terror upon his foes. His scythe swept a deadly swath, and men fled.
Crono brandished his own blade skilfully, parrying all strokes set against him, whether spear or sword. But his horse was not so fortunate as he, and the spearmen of Porre set upon it with their long lances.
Beneath Crono it stumbled and fell, dying to their pikes. Crono rolled to the ground, and rose faster than he had fallen, his sword ready and gleaming. Those that stood about him were stricken with a terrible fear, for a deadly light burned in his eyes. With a great thrust he drove his sword through a tall troll wielding a mighty scimitar, the black blood withering the ground where it fell. And so his long awaited battle for vengeance was upon him, as his foemen fell down before him in scores.
But longer it took the West to engage in their own combat. While Crono and Janus took to fighting their foes, Schala and Serge still faced West, awaiting the arrival of Porre, who now appeared as an unbroken line of men in the field across from them. From far to the East they could hear the battle joined, and espied the flash of weapons; they prayed for the safety of their friends, and for all of Guardia. But soon they turned their thoughts to their own defence.
"Take heed for their archers!" Schala yelled as she paced at before the hosts, calling all ears to her voice. "Shields at the ready!"
The front ranks of Porre stopped, allowing for their archers to make their stroke.
"Arrows!" Serge called out, seeing the black cloud of darts rise up in the sky like a flock of startled birds.
The shields were put forward, and the arrows rained down. From behind his own shield Serge could hear the sharp strikes of a hundred arrows about him, and shuddered as one with a black shaft struck deep into the earth at his side. But it only lasted for a short moment and, dropping his shield to the ground, he saw that for the most part his men were unharmed.
"Draw weapons!" he cried out, feeling strange as he did so. To be giving orders, most especially to so many, was a thing new to him. And the knowledge that those commands would be followed to the death gave him a mingled feeling of power and disquiet. What if he chose ill?
But he had little time to muse on such things. Behind him swords were drawn, spears were readied, and axes gripped firm.
Shining like a field of steel the swords of Porre were drawn in reply.
"Lord commander?" a captain addressed Serge, coming up to beside him. "The men are ready and await your command."
He looked over to Schala. She drew her sword and nodded that the order should be given.
"Advance!" he called out, and he found himself hoping that he had cried loudly enough that his voice would carry to everyone.
He took a few heavy but ragged breaths. A fear beset him, and he wondered if Schala felt the same. Those not a hundred paces before him would be seeking his death, and doing their utmost to end his life. If he did not do well he would suffer through pain and perhaps death. This was no friendly contest of arms, nor even single combat. Here his death might come from any side, so that he might not even see the stroke or man that would kill him. He shook his head and quelled it, calling to him all his courage.
Dissembling all emotion he ran. Behind the men followed him and Schala. Followed them to the death, if that was their fate.
The sea of enemies struck Serge as if they were a great wave, and in an instant he was surrounded in an ocean of foes. Around him men went to their separate battles to the death. A soldier spied him and rushed to meet him, brandishing a long sabre. But Serge, who had seen many more battles this man he now faced, was more than an equal for his enemy. In two swift strokes the man fell, the Masamune striking him his death blow. Serge took no joy in it however as he looked upon the edges of his sword, stained with the lifeblood of the man he had just killed. He took pause for a moment, even there in the middle of the battle. He felt sickened, and gasped shortly. What wreck of a world was this, wherein men fought so? Here was a man, as good as any other no doubt, and he had just slain him. Yet there are times when war and death are unavoidable, even necessary, and one must look beyond the sickening horror of the day's deeds to what ends will be accomplished thereby. When one must put aside all thoughts and cares for one's own safety, and for any pains that the heart may feel over deeds dark, though necessary. Justified only through the knowledge that these this evil is done neither through will nor joy but in need, and for the sake of others. And it was such a time in which Serge found himself. Fight now and live to muse on the righteousness of your deeds later, his heart cried out to him. He shut fast his eyes for an instant, summoning all his will and powers...
Around Serge the terrifying sounds of battle raged, like to a storm itself: the shrill clash of a thousand weapons striking, the sharp whistle of arrows piercing the air, the battle cries of the victorious and the death screams of the mortally stricken. It was more terrible than Serge would have ever thought it to be, and a fear began to again gnaw at his heart. Yet he quelled it with a glance beside him, for at his side Schala fought with great ferocity. Indeed, she appeared now almost akin to a demon, so terrible was she in the fury of battle. By her ancient powers of magic she was wreathed in blankets of scorching flame that burned about her as a fiery cloak, and streamed back from every movement she made. In her usually kind and gentle face burned such a fire so that even Serge could not meet her eyes but for an instant, for they were kindled to crimson, and flashed with power, being seemingly lit by an inner flame. None could withstand her blade, for it danced with a deadly fire and, indeed, no few ran from her onslaught out of sheer terror of her wrath. Storms of flame were there at her command, and they sprang from her hands in terrible hurricanes and blazed about her in pillars of scorching heat that withered the grass at her feet. Indeed, it seemed as if the ancient Norse gods were once more arisen, and Surtur was come with his flaming sword to destroy all the world in fire.
Next to her stood Serge, now battling with his utmost strength. At his command were powers of unbridled and undimmed light, as bright and pure as the very sunlight that shone from the sky. His eyes burned as two stars, and the Masamune flashed golden in his grip, a whirling blaze as awesome as a wheel of holy fire. Together, for a time, they were as a fortress for the people of Guardia, and ever when the fray appeared most hopeless they fell back around the pair, and their courage was renewed seeing their heros' valour and power. But despite their might, they could not face more than a few foes at a time, for such were the limits of their powers, and oft they were almost slain, being overwhelmed in the onslaught. Yet it was not their fate to die yet, and ever they escaped, though not without many wounds.
The fortunes on the eastern flank were not as good, however.
Here Crono and Janus battled side by side, and they too wielded great power. Raging storms swept the battlefield, and ever lighting darted to and from Crono, for it came and went at his bidding. No less in might Janus beside him mastered the shadows and darkness, and it seemed to their foes that the sun had been eclipsed, and night come. Yet they were challenged by mighty foes, for here had Porre sent their own magicians. Few of these were human, most being mystic mercenaries bought whose skills had been treacherously bough with the gold of the Empire: tall half-humans and cunning swart elves whose eyes glinted brightly as they put forth their spells. These were mighty indeed, and the battle between the opposing magicians raged, ravaging the field in-between so that decimated earth smouldered black and scorched, though neither side could overcome the other enough to gain victory. Long, too, those battles were, and Crono fought on undaunted, not fearing either death or pain; he lived now only to battle for Guardia, and knew that his end would come soon, and welcomed it. Therefore he fought with a fury that struck fear into the hearts of his enemies, being wrathful and knowing that he must perish, or else live bereft of joy.
But soon the fortunes in the West also turned to ill, for Serge and Schala grew weary at last and the enemy, seeing the flames of her wrath dying, pushed forward with desperate fury.
In the midst, Serge was left to his own, for the foe came between him and Schala.
He turned about frantically, fearing at any moment that some blade would cruelly end his life. Where was she?
"Master, turn about!" Masa cried out suddenly in his mind.
Serge turned, finding an enemy almost upon him. The soldier struck viciously at Serge with a long bladed greatsword. Sparks flew as the Masamune smote against it, the sound echoing clear and terrible in Serge's ears. His arms ached with the strength of the blow, but he turned his weapon about, thrusting it towards the soldier in a quick strike. But the man he faced was far better at war craft than the others Serge had fought. A cold gleam seemed to burn in his eyes, and he was not fully human, it seemed. Nearly too late did Serge understand the dreadful meaning of this: the one he faced was a sorcerer. The ground at his feet buckled and lurched as the magician whispered some fell incantation, and Serge nearly faltered, stumbling on the cracked earth. Seeing the sudden weakness of his foe, his opponent was upon him in a moment, the shining blade sweeping in a deadly arc. Serge spun about, rolling to the earth to avoid the death blow. Indeed, he narrowly missed that fate, the sharp edge merely grazing his arm streaking it red, and burning it with a sharp lancing pain. But now Serge was in grave danger for, in evading the deadly blade, he had fallen to the ground, with his enemy still standing tall over him. The soldier laughed grimly, foretasting certain victory. The sword swept down for Serge. But Serge was not fully overcome yet, and he brandished the Masamune over him; the shaft took the blow, saving him once more from death. The soldier drove the blade ever downward. In foolish desperation, for it would have been better for him to keep hold of his blade, Serge threw the Masamune away from him with great effort, for a sharp moment causing the sword to sweep harmlessly to the side and into the ground. With all the agility and speed his weary body could muster he twisted and sprang up before his enemy. But his peril was now great indeed, for Serge was without a weapon: the Masamune lay on the ground, far out of reach, and he saw what a fool he had been to let it leave his hands so lightly. Even now he would have leaped for it, folly though it might have been. But it seemed that his limbs had slowed, and he looked in fear to the magician who softly whispered accursed words of binding upon Serge. Before he could try at a counterspell, the sword was swept for his throat. It was too quick for him to do aught in his defence, even with magic, and he was sure that it was his death come upon him. So this was his fate, then. The end of all his adventures would be to die slaughtered here on a bloody field a thousand miles from his home.
A shrill clash met his ears, and he started as he realized he had not died. The blade of his enemy had stopped a hair's breadth from his neck, stayed by Schala's dagger. Where she had come from he did not know. He had lost sight of her long before, but never had he been so glad for her company.
The warrior-magician, too, was surprised, but to him it was not hope but dismay. He had not seen her approach, and was suddenly faced by another warrior, whose crimson eyes burned in red wrath more fearsome than his own. His mind stumbled for a mere second, unsure and daunted. It was his death. Schala laid hold of his blade with her free hand and with a sharp cry swept her dagger to his throat. He fell with a faltering cry, and she turned to Serge with a grim smile in her face. Some dark joy burned in her eyes as she surveyed the field, and he wondered at this.
"Serge, at your back!" she called on a sudden, her eyes darting behind him.
He had been so entranced by his near escape from death that he had lost his sense of battle. With her cry his mind leapt to readiness. An enemy infantryman, bearing a long thin sabre, made a stroke at him. Serge leaped aside, more swiftly than the silver blade that cut through the air. With a sharp flurry Schala's dagger lanced through the air and struck the man down.
"Twice now!" she yelled at him warningly and, catching it up from the ground, tossed him the Masamune.
And so the battle continued to rage, for good and ill to both sides, the tides turning this way and that as is the wont of war. Oft was victory in doubt, and no more so than at the eastern flank. Here still Janus and Crono attempted to keep the enemy war wizards at bay. They had succeeded, for the most part, and yet they were but two and the enemy was many. Soon they were overwhelmed, and found themselves alone, all their guard lying slain about them. And in the fury lost sight of each other.
Then Janus flung down his shield, and drew his sickle. And men fled from the twofold fear of his sickle and scythe, which he wielded one in each hand. A grim image of death incarnate, but perhaps even more terrifying for he was no myth to freeze the heart on dark nights, but a manifest terror that walked abroad in the daylight; a sorcerer prince of old the likes of which the world had long since forgotten, he came with all the might of the ancient world out of times past. And men ran from his onslaught rather than face him, crying that the King of Death had been set loose upon them, or that the power of Zeal was reborn. Few there were that would openly essay to match arms with him, and those that did were for the most part worthy magicians in their own right. But what power of latter days can compare to that which was Zeal the Magnificent? That might lived now only its two children, Janus and Schala.
And so it was that not any man alone would dare stand before that one who once was chief among wizards, who of old had been called Magus, the Sorcerer, and Janibas, the Necromancer of the Mystics. Though wounded many times, he was ever victorious against all that stood against him, whether soldier or warrior magician. But, seeing that any one of them alone was hopeless to overcome his power, they drew together, and thronged about him so that he was hard set to, and he grew weary. His blades were now notched and did not gleam silver but red. For they dripped in the mingled blood of countless foes. All the more did he struggle, seeing well the peril he was in. And in his desperate fury he grew the more fell to look upon. His eyes gleamed as two dark stars that had burned in the ancient skies, or perhaps as twin jewels of jet. And the brandishing of his blades was so swift that it was after said that they were unseen to the eyes, save only in the flash of light when they caught the sunlight. And that was likened to the flickering of a star.
"My blade grows weary," he yelled aloud in a daunting voice, "It seeks the blood of those cravens that flock about me, those who fear me even though I stand alone!"
It shook the hearts of his foes, but even so it was a hopeless cry. He was outmatched in numbers if not in skill.
"Ah, but not alone!" a voice cried, coming to his side. Cutting his way through the hosts Crono had once again won his way to the side of his comrade. And now they stood together in last desperate defence, back to back and daring any and all that sought to slay them. About them a lambent lightning played, amidst brooding darkness, and with eyes aflame they seemed like to two ancient gods, arisen from myth. Even as great Frey, the king's namesake, and cunning, dark Loki, battling by some strange fate as friends. But though they were mighty indeed, and none on earth more fell and grim than Crono, the Great Hero, in his fury, gods they were not.
They were but two mortals in a perilous world, and it was in hopeless fury that they slew, with a seeming fey mood upon both their souls. The enemy closed in about them, hemming them in, but still they were undaunted for, though death looked upon them smiling, they feared it not. Indeed, Crono desired nothing more than to end in such a glorious way. Then Crono lifted high his sword so that it gleamed brightly, and Janus brandished his scythe before him, and they prepared to die with glory, with their last strength upholding the last hopes of Guardia.
"A strange doom upon us, indeed," Janus laughed. "That those that have defeated demons should die to the hands of mere men."
"Yet no less noble, whether by demon's flame or man's arrow," Crono replied. "And let us make this a long remembered end at the least!"
Yet, at the last, they were saved by fate. For even as the enemy rushed upon them with victory flashing in their eyes, and the twain raised their weapons in reply, they heard a cry echo loud from behind the backs of their foes, rising high above the sound of battle.
Seeing the distress of his lords, Sigurd had gathered what few strong and undaunted men he could find around him, and now came to their relief. The wizards of Porre had been too eager for the fall of their mighty enemies, and had ceased vigilance upon all other sides. Now Sigurd came upon their rearguard with a great fury, and in the confusion that he wreaked not a few mighty magicians fell to his blade, for none now fought harder than he. His flaxen hair flashed golden in the sunlight and in his face was revealed a great valour, and all that saw him in that hour thought him to be a mighty and skilled warrior indeed; none saw a child of but sixteen. Then he yelled out to Janus over the din of the battle:
"I hope I did not arrive over late my lord!"
And Janus smiled, now finally seeing the worth revealed in Sigurd. Then all the ills that stood between them were cast aside, and Janus shouted to him, thankful for this unlooked for aid, crying:
"No, my young friend. I see now at last that you are indeed worthy of that blade you wield. You are mighty, I deem, beyond what I had accounted you. And now let us battle together as brothers, for the day is not yet won."
Then Crono and Janus ran up and joined him, and side by side the three drove forward with the small company, their strength and hope renewed by Sigurd's courage. The fear inspired by this sudden and unlooked for onslaught sowed discord in their foes, and they broke before them. Leading the armies of Guardia Janus hewed down foes as a reaper at harvest, and both the blades of Zeal flashed together with renewed hope. And so it was that the armies of Porre were mastered by the timely stroke of a mere child, and much were the people of Guardia avenged in that hour. Then those of Porre that remained living on the plain fled the massacre of the battlefields for the woods, their spirits and hopes defeated for the time, and the people of Guardia stood victorious as the sun set with red fire on a day of battle and death.
(Last Edited September 21, 2004)