CHAPTER XIX
THE BATTLE OF ANNOTH-TIN
Serge awoke, suddenly startled from his sleep. His mind had been troubled in dreams, and would not allow him to remain at rest. To his surprise he saw the others had already risen, though as of yet only a pale easterly light proclaimed the coming morning.
"Serge?" Schala asked as he rose. "You too couldn't sleep? This does not bode well."
"Strange dreams, Schala. But I can barely remember it now. It probably doesn't mean much."
"No, it means a great deal," she replied anxiously. "In fitful dreams you have been not alone. We, too, each of us, have had our sleep troubled with some dark warning. Crono?"
Crono looked about, and Serge saw his face as pale, though perhaps this was merely the moonlight that streamed through the trees. But his face was unsettled, and a disquiet rested in his eyes.
"I, as Serge, can but remember a part of what I have dreamt. I found myself alone, in a place devoid not only of sound but substance as well. A dark forest, into whose depths my eyes could not see. As I looked about in fear, I was startled by a sudden voice at my side. Turning, I found, to my amazement, the form of the one whom I have longed for more than any other. How, I so not know, but it was my beloved Marle. Though pale and ghostly, as though a shade of death escaped from Hades, she came to me. What words passed between us, I cannot now remember. But my heart forebodes me this: she came not in wifely greeting, but rather only as a messenger, to warn me of some coming evil. Yet our time was brief, and even as I reached out to her and sought to embrace her, she faded into darkness..."
He shook his head as Schala spoke:
"So, too, was my dream, Crono. But to me it was a wraith of Lucca. As you I cannot recall what words passed, only that they were of some dark warning. Serge, have you dreamt likewise?"
He nodded.
"Janus, you have had such a dream as well?" she asked of her brother.
"An apparition of our mother. More shall I not say, for it shall avail us no more than what has already been said."
Schala shook her head darkly, a countenance of grave disquiet upon her.
"I shall take counsel of this in my heart, and attempt to decipher what I can of it."
"What can this mean?" Crono asked.
For long, no one spoke. At last it was Janus who broke the stillness.
"That we should guard ourselves of our coming fate, as we have ever done. That we should not meet tomorrow blindly, but step into it with both eyes sharp, and a watchful glance to our back. More we cannot do. And it is only a fool who accounts too much to dreams."
"Not to be taken as a guide of deeds, most certainly," Schala answered him. "But that four should dream so similarly? No, though the dreams be forgotten, let their meaning hold true. As Janus has said: we should at the least be ever watchful now."
----
It was dawn now, and Serge sat upon his horse looking fixedly across the plain to the south. At his side Schala sat upon her own steed, shifting uneasily as if a disquiet rested upon her mind.
Behind them the gathered armies of Guardia stood already prepared and silent, as Crono had drawn up the battle-lines in the dim hours of morning. Yet it was a peculiar quiet; some solemness had taken all the men, and the ranks were noiseless.
These were the best that could be rallied so swiftly, each one hardy and good with a sword or spear. Greater in number than last autumn, but even had it not been so Crono would have accounted this army of greater might than his last.
In the distance the rising dust proclaimed the van of the enemy host, likely the cavalry. Crono had heard at daybreak that the fortress that guarded the centre of the bridge had fallen, and those who had been able had fled to join Crono's army. Porre was swift in the following.
"Serge, take care. I sense something greatly amiss here," Schala said, glancing nervously from enemies to friends.
Serge looked uneasily at her. Evil feelings were always an ill way to begin a battle. And now to his mind returned anew their fretful dreams, and the warnings of evil that had come to them. Serge frowned, but nodded, affirming the warning. He felt nothing but a faint premonition, a thing not uncommon before battle. Yet Schala was a powerful enchantress, and such things touched her mind more profoundly; seldom were her feelings without cause.
"What's the matter?" he asked as she drew her horse's reins ever firmer in her grip. Perhaps now she would have some answer to the riddle that their dreams had begun. But she only frowned, shaking her head, with uncertainty knit into her brows.
"A dark shadow. I fear," she began, then paused and was silent for a moment, a seeming knowledge crossing her. But it appeared that whatever thought came to her served only to perplex her further.
She looked behind to where the army stood at the call of their captains.
"I don't know what I fear. My mind is troubled once more by the warnings that we have received. Take care for yourself"
As if in reply, Janus rode to their side, like a dark wind upon his mighty steed, and reined his horse in beside Serge.
"Schala!" he called urgently past Serge at his sister, his dark voice lending a certain chill substance to his words. "A dark day begins, beyond the evil of war! The black wind chills my spirit. Fate is strong this day; for some, at least, this battle will hold a deep darkness!"
Schala started, very much disturbed. When Janus felt so, things were ever on the verge of ruin. She wondered with a rising fear at what this day held that the very whisperings of prophecy should be so darkened.
"Janus! Serge! We must retreat," she said on a sudden, her eyes caught with a wide fear. "Tell Crono that he must call for flight at once!"
"No!" Janus cried, overcoming his sister's words. "No matter what the evil, if we retreat now then we will surely die. I will go warn Crono as to this, but do not falter, and do not waver. Forward, to victory or death!"
And with a flourish of his hand his horse veered away in a gallop to where Crono sat at the chief vanguard.
"No!Aith henamet il es tina!" Schala cried after him, but her voice faltered in the wind. Either he did not hear, or did not care to reply, and Schala scowled after him.
"Curse that stubborn-valiance of his! Serge, my heart has not been so darkened since," she glanced about, as if fearing her words to be an ill omen, "since the Tesseract. A dark foreboding rests heavily upon my heart."
"The Tesseract?!" Serge stammered as his heart quickened its pace. "Why would you feel like that now?"
But, as he said the words, a cold lance of fear entered his heart. He, too, felt it, or something akin to it. The evil nothingness, and the dark despair, that had haunted that place.
"Why?" he said again, his words faltering from his lips.
Schala swept out her sword, one with a great blade which she kept sheathed beside her steed, and shook her head at Serge.
"Perhaps this is what we were warned of. I have no knowledge of what fate awaits us this day, but I assure you it is without question dark," she said grimly, raising her eyes to the enemy ranks. "And now I fear we are too late in seeing the doom come upon us!"
The vanguard of the cavalry of Porre were now nearly upon them, and Serge saw that it was moot to question her further. He plainly saw the wild fear in her eyes: the terror of one who has been caught unawares when it is their way to know all things before they happen. And now she had no more knowledge than feeling could bring, such as he himself possessed.
Serge stole a glance to the eastern-most flank of the Guardian armies. Janus was at Crono's side once again. A word passed unheard between them, and then Crono swept out his sword, raising it high.
"Guardia lives forever! Iustitia nostri signum est!" echoed from across the plain, and that was the signal for the advance.
Serge raised the Masamune high, catching the glimmer of the sun upon the edges of its gold-touched blade. Schala likewise swept her sword skywards, and the two urged their horses forward in sudden speed. At their sides thundered the cavalry and mounted men of Guardia, such as there were, and in their trail came the footmen. Swords swept free from scabbards, axes were unslung, and spear hafts gripped firm.
"Luck, Serge!" Schala called, brandishing her sword about in his way once, even as a fleeting smile touched her lips.
And with those last words the ranks of horses met, heralded with the clash of weapons. The thunderous roar of musket fire met Serge's ears as the enemy dragoons opened fire, felling some from both sides in their volley. Some ill judgement, no doubt, Serge thought grimly as a Porre soldier before him, the very one that he had marked as his opponent, faltered from his horse in a death-swoon, even to a bullet from his own comrades.
And now the infantry came into the battle.
With a fleeting glance Serge saw Schala fall from her horse, dragged down by the footmen. But he knew well enough not fear for her safety: in a moment her silver blade flashed high, and fell down ringing upon an iron helm. It held, but Serge turned away and to his own struggle, knowing that whomever she chose to face would die, as surely as though Death itself had singled them out.
Serge rose up in his stirrups, knowing that cavalry were of little use now in this fray, and only made him prey for the enemy dragoons. As if to add meaning to this thought a bullet dealt him a stray stroke across the forearm, tearing a thin read streak across as it passed. He dismissed the pain and blood, and took thought once again on the battle. Glancing to his side he saw an enemy horseman bearing down upon him with great speed, brandishing a silver rapier. Serge leaped from the back of his horse, grasping at the soldier with a free hand. As Serge fell he caught hold of a belt, and perforce the man came down with him, following him to the earth. Serge rose the quicker, however, and so the man never rose, for he was struck through the heart by a fell thrust of Serge's shining dagger that he loosed from his side (and that he had kept even for such things.) Raising his eyes, now, the battle seemed far different to Serge than it had upon horseback, for he was no longer above his foes, but rather amongst them. A disadvantage to some (and cavalry were most often favoured), but the Masamune was not a weapon that suited a rider, and to him any battle on the ground was favourable to one upon horseback.
The edges of his twin blades danced in fire as he wheeled it above his head, bringing it down in apt time to stave off an enemy sword that sought his life. As swift as it ever was, the Masamune fought nearly with a spirit of its own.
And so did the third battle in those wars begin, and of all the most sung of. For in after years many a bard did tell of the valour of the King of Guardia, striking down foes as a reaper at harvest. Great captains he faced, and overthrew each in their turn. And of Janus, the last of the ancient sorcerer princes, who fought at his side, bringing forth all his knowledge of magic, and of his curved scythe to which men fell in scores. And even of Serge Masamune, accounted not the least among the heroes of that day.
But, alas, it is not in joy that those songs end, though they begin in hope. For though the armies of Porre suffered grievous harm, they were ever renewed in greater numbers than had been reckoned with. And so as morning gave way to midday, the armies of Guardia found themselves in dire peril.
For as the sun climbed to its zenith, Schala looked about, seeing in the distance a new host coming upon their already beleaguered company.
"Serge! Things are falling into ruin! We are stalled at every front, and we now cannot hold them for long. Some strange power gives unnatural zeal to these foes, and I begin to fear this is no mortal army, for some potent will drives them."
"What should we do, then?" Serge asked in uncertainty, seeing even her dismayed.
"Guard me, my friend. I will attempt something not done for many an age," she said, thrusting her sword quivering into the ground.
Serge nodded and, gathering what men he could call swiftly together, formed a stout shield-ring of defence around Schala.
The enemy pressed all the harder, thinking by this that they had nearly overcome their foemen. One of Serge's comrades fell to an arrow; another cried in agony as he was mortally wounded by a flying lance, so that he fell to the earth, giving up to it his lifeblood.
"Hold fast!" he commanded, seeing the others on the verge of wavering. "And shields up; don't let them have a clear shot, whatever you do!"
And then, behind him: "Schala, hurry! We're going to die one by one here."
Even as he finished this another man stumbled, being caught off guard by a shot. Before he could be helped an arrow pierced his heart, and he fell silent as the darkness closed in about his eyes.
Schala gave no sign of hearing the battle cries or of seeing the deaths. Bowing her head she knelt upon the ground. In the wind her hair waved with a gold sheen in the noon-sun.
"Schala!" Serge cried, unsure of what aid she was bringing in doing this. She looked up, startled.
"I only need moments! But guard me for those, and do not let the spell be broken, or else it may be the end of us all. Even so this may be only a vain hope: it has been many a long year since any man or woman did this, and the old oaths may no longer hold. Yet perhaps it is our only hope."
"What spell?" Serge asked, but once more her head was bowed in deep thought, and he did not trouble her to ask again.
Serge turned once more to the battle, unsure but resolved to carry out her command. Yet no more than half of those that had stood with him a minute before now remained alive, despite their valiant stand. He himself had been fortunate not to have been slain in the moment in which he had turned about.
"Don't waver," Serge called quickly as one of the men leaped forward with a quick sword flashing. His weapon drew blood, but he himself was overborne by two others. Had not Serge come suddenly forward, he would surely have died. Dragging the frightened man back, he fended off the assault with his skilful swordstrokes.
"Stay low," he said to the man he had just rescued. "And keep calm."
Behind him he heard a soft chant rise up in the wind, even above the clamour of battle. He turned sharply, and saw Schala singing the words of some old verse. And it was a spell of some power for, though the words meant nothing to him, they caused his heart to darken in dread even to hear them voiced.
Entra teradeai rothet sai hael elth
Kalach entra es tinet adeai
Asant alakurao, Ros alakuros
Meronan es anuis elth anuisad alchad
Aith es gal es nesao Selevrotho!
She ended on a sudden, and leaped upward with a fell glow behind her eyes; she turned about, peering this way and that. Then she smiled.
Bringing herself up to her full height, she raised a hand, and at her fingertips a faint crimson light shone. With a word of command it flew blazing like a wheel of fire into the midst of the soldiery of Porre; where landed it welled up and became a swirling whirlpool of crimson light: perhaps a doorway into some unknown, infernal, realm.
Then friends and foes alike gave way in fear as, from its coursing light, stepped a dragon. It was a monstrous beast, horned and clad in shimmering red armour that clattered with all the noise of a legion as it moved. Greater in bulk than a dozen elephants was its body, and its evil head towered on a serpentine neck far above the trees. The claws on its feet and hands were longer than spears, and more deadly than swords. Its nostrils burned as two furnaces, its gaping maw as the very jaws of hell. And death was in its gaze. Above the field the creature towered, and looked across the plain with eyes burning in power. It raised a mighty hand to crush a troop of Guardian soldiers that fled in terror.
"Diomalakur, halt!" Schala called out, her voice barely heard above screams of frenzied men.
But the dragon heard and, with a movement seemingly too swift for its great size, swung its head about to face the speaker.
Then, seeing Schala, it seemed a smile appeared on its lips...a cruel smile perhaps even more terrifying than its anger. Its voice broke out in a deep rumbling that seemed to be that of the mountains, and all shook in fear of the sound of its tongue.
"So, it is a magician of Zeal that hath summoned me. I had thought that they had all perished long ages ago, yet there can scarce be any doubt as to the blood in thy veins. Well now, what will thou have me accomplish, thou child of Zeal? Are these thy enemies that so cower before my face?"
Schala bowed before it slightly, not the least appearance of fear upon her fair face.
"I welcome your help Servant of Fire, for my allies are besieged by mighty foes. Your help is most needed lest we fail!"
The dragon broke out in a deep laugh, which was as the trembling of an earthquake.
"Then they shall feel my flame!"
And with these words he turned his massive bulk about to face the fleeing hosts of Porre. Not a few Guardian soldiers had to swiftly move, for the dragon stepped heedless of friend or foe. Its claws rent the ground beneath it as it stepped more violently than any farmer's plow, as with terrible speed it overtook its fleeing enemies.
In desperation the men of Porre turned to face this terror that had come so unforseen upon them. A hundred arrows were loosed, and the crack of countless rifles rent the air. Yet strong indeed is the armour of a dragon, and nothing short of magic or enchantments can pierce its shielded flesh. And so the arrows and bullets skipped harmlessly by, and the dragon was undaunted.
Diomalakur brought down a mighty claw, slaying a dozen soldiers in one terrible stroke. Those that lived broke rank and ran amok, seeing no way to stay this fearsome onslaught. The dragon merely laughed at their feeble tries at escape. With a breath came a torrent of flame, more searing than the fires of a forge; men perished like parched grass in the furnace.
From Schala's side Serge watched in mingled awe and horror as the dragon wreaked this terrible destruction. The despairing cries of those caught in its hell's fire met his ears, and he shuddered.
"Schala," he said, but no more, for he could put no words to his thoughts.
She bowed her head, and he saw her slightly pale.
"I know, Serge, I know it well...terrible, oh, monstrous, is the fury of Diomalakur when aroused. I would not have summoned him but at most dire need. Yet even now I doubt if I was not a fool in doing so. He is a beast of hell, and has no love but for death and destruction. Yet long ago he swore an unbreakable oath to fight along side the sons and daughters of Zeal, and so is an unshakable ally to this day."
"But..." Serge muttered. For it seemed too evil a thing to do, and touched his conscience nearly. What were they now: holy warriors and heroes, or dark sorcerers?
"Stop it, Schala!" he said finally, casting aside the Masamune and grasping her by the arm. "This is too much. Do we want to win just to tell our children that we became the exact thing we fought against?"
Schala shook her head with sadness.
"No, certainly not," she said with a whisper. "But for good or ill it is done now, and cannot be undone. The dragon fights for me, but will not stop at my bidding. I am sorry, most heartily so, and I pray for the souls of Porre. That is all that may be done now, I feel."
In the far distance Diomalakur struck down men to either side, heedless of every stroke that was dealt against him. Now and again his deep laugh would rumble down the battlefield, portending doom. And so, led by the fearful power of the dragon, the men of Guardia once more rallied, and fell in behind Diomalakur.
Serge, for his part, sighed. He felt heartsick, and betrayed by this deed of Schala's. He had thought her nobility to be without match. Yet now it was that even she, the one whom he would have thought to be the last to be corrupted, had fallen prey to darkness. Even as she had forewarned him, and as she had feared. Woe, indeed, betide her enemies.
And Schala, also, was not without remorse. She, too, watched the dragon's fury with mingled joy and horror. I was true that they now had victory in their grasp without question but, even so, it was a tainted thing.
"Serge, I have made a terrible mistake. This deed proclaims me accursed in the eyes of God. Some things should never be called upon, some powers not to be trifled with, even at last need. What darkness has taken hold of me that I should do such a thing?"
She shuddered as the dragon bore up a bloody claw, then brought it down upon some of the few remaining men. About the beast fires burned where men lay in ashes, and battle-carrion was strewn about, crushed by the footfalls of the creature.
"Diomalakur, cease!" she called out. It turned and levelled its gaze upon her, teeth dripping blood.
"I thank you for your aid!" Schala cried, hoping that perhaps it would, beyond reason halt; yet there was desperation clear in her voice. "Now you may return with gratitude!"
The monster paused, a dark question in his eyes.
"What is this? Shall I not slay all thy enemies? I have but dealt with one legion. Yet I see many others yet fight, and many more come from afar. Should I not deal with these likewise, and render them food for the carrion birds?"
Schala shook her head and bowed to a knee, in the fleeting hope of appeasing the pride of the beast.
"No, Diomalakur Asantroth, Lord of Fire, most mighty of Serpents and friend of Zeal. These we shall fight alone!"
The dragon reared up on its legs, towering up to a vast height.
"Until now I have fought but gnats! Is this why thou hast brought me hither, to slay insects, thou princess of Zeal? No worthy foes have I seen, and thus shall I not depart! And did not oaths lie between us twain, I should not bear so kind a will against thee; remember thy place, enchantress, and that I am not thy slave to command."
Schala was aghast, yet powerless to stay him through words. She shut her eyes and shook her head. Finally, with a muttered curse, she sat down upon the ground, looking at the earth rather than at the demon she had so foolishly summoned. Through its power there was no more danger here in this field; now they awaited the counterstrike that Porre was sure to make.
"Darkness gathers in my heart, my will is weakened, and I am driven to evil deeds. What does this portend?" she whispered unto herself, but Serge heard, and looked over at her.
She shook her head wearily, with a pained stare glancing at the blood-strewn field.
"Mark me: I will suffer judgement for this."
Finally, all the people of Guardia that remained living, but two thirds of the force, had gathered once more. An hour had passed since the sudden ending of the battle. It had been a grievous loss for both sides, with more than two thousand slain of Guardia alone, but doubtless it was Porre who had taken the worse; two full legions lay scattered or dead. Breaking from their companies of men Janus and Crono strode up, both glancing warily at the beast with mistrustful eyes.
"What have you done, Schala?" Crono demanded, with some anger entering his voice. Even Janus seemed uncertain, and his black eyes darted ceaselessly from the beast to Schala, and he said:
"Dark deeds, Schala, are done this day. Tina achos, kib saio."
"You need not tell me that, brother," she replied, in the voice of one who is caught in the midst of a misdeed.
"He's done what he needed," Serge said. "If he won't stop, then send him back, Schala."
"I cannot," she whispered. "He has come at my bidding and leaves at his pleasing. He will not depart until he has found a worthy challenge."
Serge looked dejectedly to where the great dragon sat, as a king of death among the wreck, seemingly proud of the grim kingdom he had won for himself, though his servants were no more than food for the carrion-birds.
"Yet perhaps this is best," Crono said, "for the beast spoke truly! More legions come to the aid of Porre, and their might is twice what we had reckoned with. Without this creature's aid, I am afraid that we may well be lost."
Schala agreed silently, but it did little to cure the sickness of her heart.
Crono raised his sword, calling all eyes to him.
"Rally about the dragon! We await Porre here."
They waited, the rest renewing their spent strength. As the third hour after midday drew to a close, the second host arrived.
"And now will this battle and war be decided," Crono said. "Beware of the dragon, and keep a sharp watch. This is our greatest battle!"
And, indeed, the foes were not few. Not anyone could count, but Serge guessed there were nearly eight thousand. They came over the hills from the south and east like ants, marching rank upon rank in unflawed order.
"We have but fought mercenaries till now," Janus said grimly upon seeing the army. "This, at last, is their Northern Guard, unless my wits fail me."
Crono nodded, seeing this as well. For these soldiers were very much unlike the others. Whereas the men they had fought before had been dressed in drab clothes of brown and grey, and had wielded any sort of weapon, these had the look of a true army, trained through many years for war and conquest. Their raiment was deep blue and, though they wore little armour, that which they did shone with dazzling light, as it mirrored the sun. And each wore at his side a great sabre. The outriders of this host were even more grand: blue-caped dragoons, they sat tall and proud on mighty steeds, and carried short-barrelled rifles.
All these marched over the rise, in order long rehearsed.
"Yes," Crono replied simply, "This will not be a day lightly to be won, even if victory is our fate."
He drew out his sword, and nodded somewhat to Janus.
"But if men may slay a demon such as Lavos, how much less should this seem."
Serge stepped over to Schala, and out of Crono's earshot. She sat crouched on the ground, awaiting the battle. But her face was not joyful, nor stern, nor even grim, as might be thought. She was pale, more so than Serge had ever seen her, as if a monstrous fear had beset her. And he saw that her sword quivered in her hand.
"Schala?" he asked, looking at her with rising concern. "What's the matter?"
She glanced up at him, saying:
"When this battle began, I told you I felt my heart darkened by some uncertain thing. Janus, too, felt the black wind, and it is an ill omen of death. It was this that weakened my resolve, and I could not forestall my dark sorcery. But more than this, I fear that things have not yet come to their worst."
She stood, trembling. Her blue eyes glanced anxiously between Guardia and the legions of Porre.
"It is not they that I fear. What it is, I cannot place; what is this mighty darkness that so eludes my thought?"
She closed her eyes, burying her head in her hands. The ground quaked with the sound of dragon steps. Battle was near.
The enemy armies had assembled, and a silver trumpet rang across the field.
And even as this happened, Schala reopened her eyes, and it seemed as if in that moment some vision passed before them. A tear coursed its way down her cheek as she drew out her sword.
"I think this to be our farewell, Serge, my friend," she said with a sadly weak smile. "Ah, I might now see wherein this dark riddle leads: I see myself fall this day; I see my brother overwhelmed. Is this, then, what has so darkened my mind? A foretaste of my death?"
Serge could not quite understand the words said to him. But she, it seemed, had recalled some form of courage. Her face flushed with colour again, and a grim peace appeared to descend on her, and it frightened Serge to see that this appeared to be the calm of one who knows death to be inescapable. She cast a second smile upon him.
Then the battle struck. Serge only just saw her nod to the enemies upon them, else he would have been caught fully unawares; he had been so mystified by what she had said.
With a great flashing of swords and shields the armies met. Blood was drawn upon both sides, and men fell with sundered flesh to steel-forged weapons. The hosts of Porre were greater in number, and both fairer and more deadly seeming. Yet even so the men of Guardia were hardy and valiant, and their King unmatched. And they had a dragon with them, a thing which was the bane of all the men of Porre. Old or young, fearless or cowardly, it meant little to Diomalakur. They were all a feast to his unquenchable bloodlust.
Things were turning out well for Guardia, indeed, when Serge and Schala looked up at the far hills. There a dust could be seen, the sign of a new riding swiftly approaching
Over the rise the cloud of dust rose higher, and in its shadow a small troop of riders mounted the ridge, all-arrayed in sable raiment and bearing a strange device upon their standard and shields: the symbol of a flame.
To see that accursed emblem appear so before his eyes cast such a fear upon Serge that he near forgot of the battle about him. Schala, too, started, a cold fear clutching her heart as the standard broke clear upon the ridge.
"No..." she whispered.
The frozen flame. The mark of the demon Lavos.
"I was mistaken," she said. "It was not my own doom I felt. Rather, the doom of the whole world."
"Schala," Serge questioned urgently. "How can this happen."
Grimly she spoke, not ceasing her stare upon the new-come enemy.
"Even as my heart has forewarned me. As dreams have warned us all. Lavos has returned. Beyond all reason, this has happened."
"But..." Serge stammered. "He's dead."
"No, I can feel it. It is indeed his power. It can be no other. On your guard now, lest all fail!"
"Dragon!" Serge heard Crono cry. So he, too, had seen the coming doom. "The sorcerers that bear the Flame on their standards! Destroy them!"
The dragon reared up, casting a gaze upon the hill. The horsemen had halted. Their dread banner, bearing the accursed symbol, billowed in the wind of the afternoon.
With a tremor of stricken earth the dragon dropped itself to the ground.
The sorcerers on the cliff neither wavered nor showed fear. They sat proud upon their black-armoured steeds. And as one they drew swords.
The dragon laughed at the challenge set to him.
He leaped forward, coming upon the rise in a torrent of flame, his great clawed hand rising to strike down the troop all at once. But it never fell, at the very least not where he meant it to. A piercing light, so radiant it burned Serge's eyes to see it, rose about the soldiers. And yet it seemed sickly, as if the light itself were but a mockery of true light. Dead, even it rotten by some supreme evil.
It shone darkly, gaining in radiance. The dragon halted, and its stroke faltered even as he brought it down. Then, in a terrible roar, it let out a cry of unmistakable despair. The light burned him, more greatly than his own fire scorched the ground. He fell backward, crashed to the earth as mightily as a falling mountain, and lay still. The great dragon, Diomalakur, the beast of immeasurable power unmatched in the world, was dead.
It was in that moment that Serge first saw how dire their fortunes had become. They had ridden to war hopefully, thinking to defend the great land of Guardia from an army of mortals. But now all such thoughts had been shattered.
Down the riders rode, with a great thunder and dust, the evil light fading from the air and alighting upon their drawn blades. It ran as an evil fire down their swords now, and brandishing their flaming brands aloft they tore into the gathered hosts, showing no fear, but rather wielding it as their servant.
Schala at Serge's side shook her head in dismay.
"There is nothing we can do against this power," she said. "We are lost."
She looked wildly about the field, hoping for some glimpse of Crono.
"Crono," she murmured, "sound the retreat. Now, before every hope is lost."
As if in reply to her wish a distant horn sounded, calling all the men of Guardia to flee.
But already it was too late. The cursed company of horseman had cut a deep swath into the armies of Guardia, felling brave men left and right with their evil swords. The blades they carried, lit with such unholy fire, cut through steel and flesh alike with light ease. Neither shield nor helm could stand to their blows. Where they struck helms were cloven and swords shattered. Only blades of surpassing worth could bear such a blow, and few of those there were indeed.
"We are lost," Schala said once more, burying her head in her hands. She looked up upon the battle again, a cry ready upon her lips.
"But fie upon us if we should now flee as cowards!" she cried, and it seemed as if a fey fire had alighted in her spirit. Her eyes burned in anger as she watched the enemy cut their way heedlessly to where they stood.
Wrathfully drawing out her sword she stepped forward, either undaunted or uncaring. Perhaps it was such a mood of despair that was on her that had torn from her heart all care or will for safety. Or maybe she sought simply to deal one last dire stroke ere all was overwhelmed. A great rider, a sorcerer-knight of the dark company, bore down on her, his face grim and battle frenzied. Upon his brow was branded the mark of the Flame. His sword shone with the fire of Lavos as he swung it, cutting down a warrior of Guardia who sought to foolishly stay him. No others dared approach him, save Schala alone. She stood, her eyes daring his coming.
He paused, brandishing his sword about. The lambent fire that danced upon the blade of his weapon seemed to wax all the more radiant, and a twisted smile of hatred crossed his lips.
"This is the hour in which the accursed heroes fall, and I have my vengeance!" he said with a distant voice, drawing himself up to his full height in his saddle. The voice shook the hearts of all who heard it, and all of friend and enemy took pause for a minute. Serge, too, felt the dire power that rang through the words.
It was not his own voice, Serge understood all too well. It was another that spoke through him, and that dominated his will. No man commanded such power in his speech. The power that Porre had sought to use had ensnared them. They were now but the deceived pawns of a mightier power yet.
The horseman leaped forward, the flaming sword sweeping in a great stroke. Schala leaped into the air, the blade passing a hair's breadth beneath her. As a rising bird she rose, high above the knight, her cape bearing her up as the wings of a great eagle. The knight cried out in rage, masterfully reigning his horse about for a second charge.
Schala fell to the ground, her sword driving deep into the earth. As through a rift had been rent into the deepest pits of the earth's heart, fire sprang up. It engulfed the sword in such searing flames that Serge could feel them hot upon his brow even where he stood, twenty paces away.
But the flames could not harm Schala, the mighty Enchantress of Zeal. Daughter of magicians, the last of a high lineage of great sorcerers, Schala enured the flames. She bent them to her will, and they became her servants. So even as the rider once again came upon her, she willed them forward and both the horse and rider became engulfed in a torrent of fire. With an anguished cry the knight leaped from the horse, his sword dropping from his hands.
Schala strode up to the knight and drove her dagger through his heart. He fell, dead at once and still aflame.
It was then that Serge realized that all the battle about had halted for that time. Men had ceased their fighting, entranced by this immortal duel. For an instant Porre stood beside Guardia, and no blood was drawn. Perhaps they even saw their own folly now, but even if it was so they had delved too deeply into powers beyond their mastering, and Guardia was still their foe.
The battle that had so strangely halted at once began again, and with a renewed fury, waxing all the more potent.
The men of Guardia were steadfast, but despite their valour, any chance of victory was doomed to hopelessness. The fell knights rode about where they would, drawing blood with every stroke, and scarcely taking injury in return. As masters of despair they seemed, and upon their will waited Death, that dread angel with the cruel and merciless sword. This day it rejoiced, for the men of Guardia fell in throngs; the armies were overborne and outmatched. And yet they were hemmed in by the outriders of the Porre army and, though a great many attempted to flee (and, certainly, none counted it as cowardice on this day of woe), they were only cut down as they sought freedom from battle. It seemed that only death could be the lot of all; this was not to be a battle, but a dire massacre from which none might live.
Now, for his part, Serge had remained, and had not tried at fleeing. His will would not allow him to abandon the struggle while others yet fought, and he thought to bring some hope to his besieged comrades, though he himself was quaking in battle fear. Yet at least he had one hope: he was one of the few that the riders would not approach, but rather fled from.
In the near distance, some hundred paces away, Schala was still fighting with a bold spirit, though overwhelmed with many foes. They fell two at a time before her blades, and her spell-wrought fire swept about her, setting to flame all who escaped her knife or sword edge.
And yet the enemy were many, and not unskilled in the ways of war. Time and again some weapon would find its way past her guard and strike her a grievous blow so that she faltered and was nearly overcome. But each time she rallied her might again before the storm could overtake her, and fought with even greater vehemence than before. It was a marvel to Serge, as he saw it between the glances from his own battles, but a terror to her foes, for no warrior, not though he was the most valiant of men, could have borne such injury and lived. She bled till her gold hemmed armour streamed red, and the sheen of the metal was all but hidden from the sun. Yet still she fought, an unquenchable valour of hopelessness kindled in her ancient heart. For it had always been a virtue of the children of Zeal that they should endure hurts of body more hardily than any other mortals. A last echo of a forgotten age, she seemed to scorn and deny death even as it swept in near about her.
Through this all Serge fought desperately to come to her relief, perhaps so that they might flee together, but instead was pressed into retreat as ever more soldiers swept between them.
"Schala!" he called out, but without any hope of her hearing him.
Yet hear him she did. She looked toward him, and even through the distance that lay between them he could the keen despair that her eyes held, and it darkened his heart to dreadful fear to see it. Her glance was fey and hopeless.
"Schala!" he cried again. "Hold fast for a little while! I'm coming!"
He parried a sword blade that came for his head, and leaped under the point of a lance that struck for his side. He put no more faith in the armour that he wore, and even his beloved Masamune that he held so lightly was beginning to weary his arms. An unlucky stroke glanced off the side of his helm, and he fell to the ground as his mind, for a moment, forgot reason. But he recovered his wits even as the warrior raised high his blade to strike the deathblow, and leaping nimbly upward drove his own sword fully through the man's chest. Serge shook his head distressfully as the man's eyes clouded in death. He could see that his own will was waning, and that he was beginning to tire. He had been fortunate, but maybe the next time he would not be. His helm was now ruined, and so encumbered his head that he tore it off as he leaped once more amidst the fray that swept about him.
And it was a grim skirmish, at that; of all his company, only a few of the men were still with him. The others lay dead at his feet. All were now hard pressed.
And where was Janus? For a moment the battle grew thinner, and he saw the sorcerer, as he very near to being alone. And all about the men of Guardia were running in retreat, and being slaughtered in doing so. It was an endless rout, and he despaired at last of any hope for victory.
So it was that now only a few scattered groups remained fighting valiantly against their foes. The greatest was gathered about him. In the far distance a second troop yet held, the company of the Silvern Eye, and these were the hardiest of all the men of Guardia, led by the fair-haired captain Akaion, a very valiant lord. Another was a guard about Janus, and as they flung themselves to death about him, it appeared that he was well near to being alone. From every stroke that he deal there flew red blood, though more often than not this was his own, for he was injured greatly in spite of both his armour and power. And there was Schala. She fought near to her brother now, as the shifting tides of battle swept them together, and seeing them it could be seen that they were kindred; both were more wounded than any mortal should have survived, and both fought with the same matchless fury.
They took note of each other, Serge saw, and some hasty words seemed to pass between them, but he could not mark them above the frenzied battle cries.
"Janus, Schala! Hold fast! I'm coming!" he cried above the noisesome clash of weapons and armour. But his reason knew he could not reach them. He would perish in the attempt, without doubt. Too many lay between them, and he was nearly dead from weariness as it was. Schala fell suddenly and was lost amidst the soldiers. Serge's heart nearly halted, and he saw Janus, too, look with a dismayed glance to the place where she had fallen, a wild fear in his eyes.
But with a storm of fire that struck down all those about her, and leaped twenty feet into the sky, she rose again, and Serge lifted the Masamune above his head so that she might see him, and knew that he yet lived and would come to her, if he might. For now he would make his final despair counselled stand along side his friends, and mayhap they would all die within sight of each other. His arms shook in fear, yet his heart did not falter then. But even so it wept, certainly not for himself, for he was beyond caring for his own life, but rather for Leena, his dear one. His death, he knew, would strike her heart dearly.
Yet even as he prepared to make that final desperate stand, and the soldiers of Porre swelled up around the hill, Schala looked to him one last time, and there was a weary resign therein.
She shook her head sadly. Her sword dropped point to the earth, and abandoned its struggle, as she knelt down in the midst of the affray. Her foes swarmed about her, and did not show any mercy: a sword pierced her through the heart and, as she fell to the ground without a cry, a second struck off her head. And then all sight of her was lost amidst the running of men.
Serge said no words, and neither did he feel any grief, for the horror did not allow him to see the truth of what had now come to pass, it was so terrible. And then it came to him as that fleeting moment passed.
"Schala!" he called in his loudest cry, but his words faltered as grief overcame him, and she did not answer.
She would not rise again. Truly his dearest friend had now met her death. Cursed day! All things were now hopeless!
And now, too, was Janus beset and alone. Though his potent magic still kept his foes at bay, it could not hold forever. It would fail shortly, and the darkness would take him as well; two of the mightiest would then together take the shadowed rode cross Styx. How could the Judge let it be so? A blade point found its mark far too near, and drew a line of crimson cross his face. From all about him swept a storm of terror as he struck in vengeful return. And then he turned to face Serge and cried aloud, admonishing him to run:
"Serge, flee! Abandon this futility, else death shall take us all!"
And Serge obeyed. Schala was dead and soon, too, would be her brother. And he himself had no hope, neither in aiding them nor in the battle. It was a defeat, more bitter than any he had ever felt or known. He turned and ran, as coursing tears of sorrow welled in his eyes. Around him some few remaining comrades rallied, and together they cut their way from amidst the press of soldiers that sought to sweep them away.
His head swooned as in a fever, such was the turmoil of defeat that beset him. But calling to himself all his powers he fought as he had never before, knowing that if he should fail now the evil that had been so victorious this day would take all of Guardia, and come shortly to Leena. In that hour it was only this fear and anger that kept him from full despair, and gave his arms the renewed strength to prevail. He lived, though from that woeful day few, indeed, of Guardia survived.
(Last Edited September 21, 2004)