CHAPTER XX
THE BITTER NIGHT BEGINS
Serge stumbled wearily into the clearing that had before served as the gathering place for the captains. His eyes were in a swoon, and his head ached, a lingering sign of having poured out far too much of his blood on the field. His thoughts were still unsure, and he fought to piece what he could of his battle-shattered mind together. But he soon saw that in this he was hardly alone.
The outcome of the dreadful battle was far worse than he had thought it to be. Certainly the tale out upon the field had been grim, and even great men had fallen: last Serge had seen before leaving the plain Akaion, the dour lord of the Silvern Eye, had taken a javelin through his cheek, so that it severed his tongue and clouded his eyes in the deathly darkness. And even more dire was the loss of Janus and Schala, without doubt near to the greatest warriors to live on earth since the fall of Zeal. But only here, in the aftermath, was the full grief of it made clear, for the woe of the field was exceeded tenfold: from the ruin of the army only a small and bedraggled band of warriors remained alive. Of those that still stood, and had even some scant command of their reason, many were bloodied and injured with grievous wounds, oft mortal. And among these men Crono stood, blood spattering his gear from a dozen scarcely healed wounds. His greatsword was driven into the earth, painted crimson from hilt to point. As Serge fell to his side Crono wiped the red blood from his face, his eyes showing dismay, even such as Serge himself felt. But, while Crono saw this all with clear eyes, to Serge all was still ununderstandable as a dark dream, one that he might awaken from at any moment.
"Serge?! What joy! I had made ready to count you among the dead," Crono cried with barely gasped words.
Serge nodded sullenly in reply, and tenderly touched a fierce wound that ran deeply across his forearm, one of many that still bled.
"Serge? Schala and Janus are yet unaccounted for. Have you seen them?" Crono asked worriedly, the lives and well-being of his comrades ever first upon his mind, in the way of the true leader that he was.
Serge shook his head, stumbling in stunned weariness to the earth. What, now, had happened? Schala was gone, for he had seen her fall and she was surely dead. And Janus, that proud wizard; even he had been overborne at the last. Serge hung his head as grief-filled tears fell from his eyes, and his heart felt as though it were cast into an ever-deepening chasm. He had no wish to tell Crono of this, for it would drive the sorrow all the deeper. And yet, as needs be, he spoke.
"They," he began, but stumbled on his words, for the sorrow mastered him at that moment. He coughed, wiped his mouth with his hand, and found it bloodied. And his chest was rife with pain as well. So, that was it, then? He, too, was upon the verge of death, and he would need die a warrior from his battle-wounds in the end. For surely the blood bore testament to deep injury. He laughed a fay laugh to himself as he thought this, on a sudden not caring much for life, such as it was. His head lightened, and a dark mist arose before his eyes, as though it were a death-veil cast before them. And then it felt as though he were drifting into the embrace of sleep, for all the cares and reasons of life seemed to fade and lose meaning. And he thought: 'what greater joy is there than to now rest apart from life, which is such a weary burden.'
"Death, I await you..." he murmured, though to him the words held no meaning.
"Serge? Hold fast!" a voice cried, and this was Crono, who helped him to his faltering feet. Crono swept his hand across Serge's forehead, and at once some of the mist seemed to lift from before his eyes, and reason returned to him.
"Be wary, Serge. You have taken grievous injury, and are nearer death than you think. Are you better, now?" he asked as he removed his hand from Serge's head.
Serge nodded, though a frightening thought laid hold of him: he had nearly succumbed to the sweet lies of death and, had it not been for Crono, would have fallen dead even then. Never had he been so near it.
Crono steadied him, then gripped him by the shoulders, once again urgent.
"Schala, Janus? Did you see them? Do they live?"
Once again, though with a clearer, and so more sorrowful, mind, Serge shook his head.
"No, I don't think they made it..."
"That cannot be! Never; Janus and Schala must live!"
With a grief-born vexation Serge cried:
"They're dead, Crono! I saw Schala die with my own eyes; and Janus...he was surrounded and alone. There was no way he could have made it, not even for one so powerful as he was."
And at these words of grim assurance Crono fell to his knees, even as if he had been struck harshly by some unseen hand. From his eyes welled tears, and he tore at his hair in his anguish. First it had been his beloved wife, and now his dear companions. Had fate, then, turned against him, to spite him at every turn and road? He stood, sighing, and closed his eyes, to regain mastery of his wild feelings.
"Does the muse of tragedy sing for Guardia alone this hour? Curse this lot of mine..." he whispered to the wind that swept gently through the glade, "...can I not have peace? If this is the fate of heroes and kings, I would that I had never set foot on this path, for it is so hard to follow."
Serge looked at him in wonder. He himself felt sick in grief; how much more must Crono then feel this. Nearly ten thousand of his people had died in a single, evil, day.
"Crono?" he asked cautiously, unsure as to what mood was in mastery of his mind, whether it was only sorrow, or if there was grief-flamed wrath alongside.
Crono nodded solemnly in reply.
"I am," he said, and paused for a moment, then said: "I am alright, or as much so as any might be after this. But I weep for all of those who have died, and I pray to God that He somehow amend this day, for I have failed of my strength. Can this truly be what fate has conjured: that things should end in ruin with evil victorious?"
Serge shook his head, yet more unsure than Crono. He could not see what would, or yet even could, become of this day, when all had fallen from hope into utter defeat.
"Schala is dead?" Crono asked again, and slowly, gazing up at Serge. "And Janus with her?"
Serge nodded, although it seemed an odd thing to affirm it. His own death he had deemed to be expected in such a battle, but Schala's? It had never quite entered his mind or, if it had, it had been such a thing as is thought, but not truly understood. So to now have had such a thing come to pass, to have her perished, seemed as a thing unreal.
"Dead," he repeated, and the word bore a strange new meaning to him, it seemed. He had seen the cost of death before, but never had it struck him quite so near. And what, now, did it mean? That he would not ever again see her face, neither hear her voice nor look into her eyes. A parting had been so suddenly reached, and that would last until he, too, died, or the world ended, if even then.
"How can she be dead?" he asked Crono.
Crono shook his head, some trace of tears still on his face.
"How? Because she was only mortal, as are we all. Death is a most bitter parting, and this is the bitterness fate has measured out for us. Now remains to be seen if we can bear it."
"Our lives are so fragile," Serge said in a scarcely stammered reply. "Even her's, and she was stronger than most; stronger than mine, for sure. I never thought that there would be a day where I'd never see her again. It seems that she's been stolen away before her time. All her wisdom, strength. It's gone."
Crono nodded.
"Yes, as is the fate of all Man's strength and wisdom, in the end," he said sadly. "We must treasure her memory, for that is all that remains now of her noble life. Let us live, so that in this way at least her high death will not be for loss. We have work left for us to do."
Serge looked sharply at Crono. What was this that he spoke of?
"You are blinded by grief, friend," Crono replied to his lack of understanding. "You forget all but this day. Porre will not halt, and all will come to ruin through them."
"Leena!" Serge cried, at last seeing through which reason Crono thought. "The castle. Can it hold out?"
Crono turned away from him.
"Perhaps, but that would be a slight hope only. No, the only chance left is if we stand alongside it."
"We are only two..."
"Yes," Crono replied harshly, and in anger. "Only two! I would wish for a legion of angels at my side, would it be granted, but things are not so! And would you sit idle, allowing all to perish to these accursed foes?"
He took a score of deep breaths, calming his rash words. Serge, for his part, found his heart ever on the verge of falling into despair. Only his hero's will kept him in some wise from it.
"What do we have to do?" Serge asked darkly, leaning heavily on the Masamune.
"We must return to the castle. We must gain it ere Porre."
"Can we?" Serge asked with concern.
Crono nodded.
"I should think that, at least, a certainty. We are a few, and they are an army. We can do so if we make to leave at once." He smiled somewhat, saying: "You see? Even in these worst of times, some seed of hope ever remains."
As he spoke these words a horseman broke into the clearing. For a moment panic seized their hearts, thinking that Porre had found them. But this was no enemy scout. It was a man of Guardia. Or, rather, a child, at least by the reckoning of that land.
"Sigurd?" Crono gasped, as his son dismounted from the horse. The steed seemed near to death from being overridden. Sigurd, too, appeared taxed, scarce less than his mount, but there was more to his look than weariness. A wild despair was in his glance as he peered about the clearing where the last scattering of the army stood.
"My father!" he gasped. "What has happened?"
Crono closed his eyes with a sigh.
"We were defeated, nearly to the man. And Lavos rises again."
Sigurd faltered upon hearing this and then, returning himself to a somewhat more proud bearing, said:
"Lady Schala? Where is she? And Lord Janus. I do not see him either."
"Perished," Crono replied simply."And I do not wish to speak more on the matter."
"The angel of death has a fell sword, indeed. Death and ruin!" Sigurd cried despairingly, striking a tree with his hand so that the blood ran down his fingers.
"What has happened?" Crono asked with a chill shiver of dread.
Sigurd closed his eyes, shaking his head.
"Ai, to have come so far, only to see the utter ruin of our land," he paused, reopening his eyes. "More dire than you know."
----
The morning sun was breaking from behind the dawn's clouds with its usual magnificence. Its sparkling rays shone in warm greeting through the great windows of the throne room that flanked the high throne of the king. But whatever joy this brought most was lost to the steward who sat upon the gilded king-seat.
"Curse this..." Sigurd muttered unto himself. Even after two full days his ill-temper over being left in such a rearguard had scarcely abated. He understood the need for a steward well enough, yet still his greatest desire was to fight along side his father. Not to sit idle upon his throne, as one watching a child.
Scowling all the more, he sunk back on the seat, reaching thoughtlessly for a rather large mound of scrolls and papers that lay strewn upon a table at his side. Upon these were scrawled names, numbers, and things of like sort: a myriad of accounting from throughout the land. And there, too, were the reports of tax collectors from far villages. His eyes swept a smaller looking list, but it in no way made him feel better about his duty he now served. He shook his head.
"This is a useless tedium..." he said, with unmuted disdain.
He spoke slightly too loud, as well, for the high Chancellor, hearing his voice, came at once to his side. This was an aged man, bent with many years, whose grey-white beard and withered brows seemed more fit for a man lying upon his deathbed than for one who held the high office of Chancellor. And he seemed eager to show loyalty to his young prince in whatever way was needed of him.
"Do you wish for something, my Lord Steward?" the Chancellor asked kindly, addressing him in the proper manner of the court.
Sigurd sighed in reply, knowing that even a telling of his mind would be quite useless.
"No, Chancellor. Unless you care to remove me from this place I now sit in, there is little comfort you can bring me," he said, his words frustrated.
The Chancellor smiled with kindly eyes, perhaps understanding a space more of his young lord's mind than Sigurd had thought him to.
"That, as you well know, is not within my authority. Only you may rule in your father's stead, for upon you he has laid this burden. It is his royal decree," he said.
"However, these," he added at once, touching his fingers to the papers that lay beside Sigurd. "If you wish it I may see to these."
Sigurd nodded, not without eagerness.
"Many thanks. I have no wish to neglect my duties, but I must confess that my hands do not feel as light when not carrying a sword. I am a warrior, not a scribe or clerk, and certainly not a lord."
He moved about in his seat uncomfortably.
"And now, if none require aught of me, I shall go for a stroll."
The chancellor gave no objection to this.
"As you wish. I see that you are not all too eager to sit in your father's place."
A tide of bitterness swept Sigurd's heart for a moment. He had fought for so much, and now he seemed unable to but sit in a chair. Maybe least of things his father might ask of him, and it was this which he was most turned against.
"No, I am not. It was not how I was raised, Chancellor," Sigurd stated. "I live by swords and blood, and deeds of valour; I am afraid I shall never be wholly comfortable in a king's throne. How can one be? And maybe a sword does ever hang by a hair above my head."
Standing up hastily, as if in passing fear of that mythical sword, he strode down the steps to the court. Taking the scrolls and papers into his arms, the chancellor made haste to follow him.
"It is not without wisdom that the ancient loremasters spoke so," the chancellor said, matching his pace to that of Sigurd. A great feat, no doubt, for he was old and not one taken to walking swiftly.
"A king is charged with the lifeblood of his people. To fail is his death. And he is little more than what his people hold him to be. That has ever been the creed of the ruling house of Guardia. A leader, but not master. He commands only to their glory, dismissing his own honour in favour of the lives of his people. Your father knows this."
Sigurd shook his head.
"My father is ten-fold the king I shall ever be, even if I live to reach a grey age."
At the doors leading from the court he slowed his gait and turned his eyes upon the Chancellor.
"I shall never be ready for what this, my ill-placed birth, calls of me."
The Chancellor merely laughed.
"Few kings think themselves to be when they first take their sceptres, and I think if one should it would be a sign of a grave flaw, and overbearing pride. Such things ever need time to learn. Your father has great faith in you, his only child."
Sigurd stopped and sighed.
"But what do such words avail me now? I do not care for spoken praise; I revel in honour-deeds. I wish now more than all else to stand at his side with a drawn sword in my hand. That we may together battle for the greater glory of this land of Guardia, even as we did last Autumn in the battle for this fortress."
"Such a day will yet come, my prince and lord steward," the Chancellor said.
"But now! Let my youth have its impatience: he leaves me here, to keep his throne for him," he said, with a certain bitterness.
"To guard his throne," The Chancellor answered. "He fears assault upon the castle itself, should he fail."
"He does not wish both of us to die in the same day. If it were otherwise, he would have welcomed me along, and left care of this throne to another. He fears for my safety, as if I were yet a child."
"And yet you are but seventeen. You are not yet upon manhood," the Chancellor said in reproach.
Sigurd paused, considering these words for a moment.
"You are correct..." he said at last, casting wide the doors to the passage beyond, that which led to the battlements.
"...but at times youth and zeal may succeed where old age and wisdom fail to victor. My father has long ago shown this true."
And so saying he strode through the door, leaving the Chancellor behind.
Yet his mind was not eased. He looked south from the battlements and open windows of the towers many times, hoping for some messenger that might tell of the battle. If he could not partake in it, he wished he might at least know of its outcome.
But the heralds he hoped for came far sooner than he had expected. And neither were they those he had looked for.
On the fifth hour of the twenty-second of April, Sigurd started at the sound of warning bells. He at once feared that some evil had befallen on the fields, and that the enemy were now come to the very walls. But that could not be he thought: the battle would not be until the next morning, at the earliest.
Even so he made swiftly for the gates, and what he saw there cast a great shadow of doubt upon him. A great riding of horsemen, some hundred, was waiting in the plains, a bowshot from the castle walls.
"They are strange," the Captain of the Gates said as Sigurd came by his post. "See, they wear black armour, and do not carry the banners of Porre."
"Are they of Porre, even?" Sigurd asked, stealing a glance toward the plain. It was as he had been told. It was not a chimera, but a flame, that adorned the standards.
But the captain nodded.
"By their dress, I think they are. See the style of the robes? None but those of Porre wear them so. But these are not men of their armies, nor yet of the Imperial Guard, for they ever bear the sword-crossed gilded chimera. Perhaps these are some special band of troops, fighting as a separate legion."
Sigurd nodded.
"Likely. But how, then, did they come here? Does my father's watch sleep that one hundred riders slip past him?"
But the Captain had no answers, and so it fell to Sigurd to meet the parley that was upon the fields. Yet it felt strange to him. Here were one hundred, a strong force when met on a field. But even a thousand such could not take a fortress, not without potent magic. What did Porre mean to accomplish by this?
He rode out warily, in the company of a dozen other knights, keeping careful watch to the far trees, lest there be other soldiers or bowmen encamped there, waiting to strike. And all the while he pondered by what secret roads they had come to the castle. But he met no treacherous attack, and came unhindered to the riding. As he neared a horseman rode up: gaunt, sallow skinned, with cruel, dark, eyes, and girded with a jewelled sabre at his side. He sat haughtily upon his steed, gazing upon Sigurd with a disdainful smile on his lips. Sigurd returned the eyes with a chill stare. He would not submit anger to such an unspoken insult, or allow himself to be daunted by it.
"Ah yes, they send a party at last," the messenger said with laugh, leaning forward on his horse. "Do you bear with you the authority of the king of Guardia? For surely you are not he, unless waifs sit upon the throne of this brigand's land."
"I am the steward of the throne, his son, and Prince of Guardia. So are my titles, and in these matters take my words as the king's own, and my authority as if it were his."
Sigurd spoke with an assurance that gave himself no small amount of wonder. He felt uncertain, most surely, but at the very least his words spoke nothing but full certainty.
The messenger nodded.
"Are you, now? The son of that king, indeed? I did not know that there was such a one, born heir to Guardia. And so you come to surrender, in his name, as well? A fine steward, and son I might add, you prove to be: you would surrender your own father's throne? I daresay there has not been a more faithless prince in a thousand years."
A young knight at Sigurd's side clasped his hand to his sword in outrage over these words, but Sigurd stayed him with a wave of his hand. The words struck near his own heart as well, but checked his own flaming wrath, knowing that they were tauntingly spoken bait, naught more.
"Well, here I am," the man continued, "and I will take your surrender."
"I shall not surrender," Sigurd replied shortly. "You are foolish if you doubt the courage of this land, and if we are brigands, then we are fell brigands, more perilous than armour-clad knights. But enough of such words! I ask how you have come to our gates so secretly, unmarked and unseen by any of our watchers."
The messenger laughed quite harshly, and it was plain that he found such a question choice food for his disdainful temper.
"As you say, it is a secret! You have not discovered it? Why then should I reveal it to your blind eyes? And yet I will say this: even now our ships are anchored in the northern fjords, whence we lately came."
Sigurd glanced about at his knights, for a moment disconcerted.
"A clever move," he replied at last, not wishing to give this hateful man yet more reason to laugh. He was the son of the Great Hero, and should at least bear himself becoming of a prince. "I commend you on it."
"Ah," the messenger replied, "it was not of my doing. Ah, no! Rather, it is our great Emperor who has so guilefully brought us here. Very well, if we are through bandying words of strategy: you will not surrender, so why have you come?"
"I come at the requirement of honour, to meet your parley as my office demands of me," Sigurd said, taking great care to keep his face stern.
"Honour?" the messenger said, such a wicked trace of mocking in his voice that Sigurd very nearly reached for his own sword now, and only stopped a hand from the hilt.
"Yes," Sigurd said. "But mark well that we will not yield this fortress lightly."
The herald did not reply at once, but first shrugged his shoulders as if it were a light matter.
"Of course, of course. No less did we expect. But it matters little at any rate. May your precious honour die by your side this very hour, and may all you fools fall to a swift death!"
And so saying the messenger drew his sword with a swift hand. But Sigurd was no fool. He had marked the eyes of his opposite carefully and, even as the last words were spoken, he saw well enough the treachery written therein. As the herald brought his sword clear of the scabbard, Sigurd's own blade was already free and sweeping a fell swath through the air. Ere the messenger could parry, or make for his own play, Sigurd's blade struck true, and cleft the head off at the shoulders.
"To arms! Horseman and knights, take heed. This is no parley!" Sigurd called aloud.
Those remaining of the foe's parley group had already taken to flight, perhaps undone by the sudden fall of their captain, and the knights by Sigurd's side made ready to hunt them down.
"Halt!" Sigurd commanded his men. "We were lured hither with ill-intent. But let the enemy not have their way in this matter." He turned his steed about, "Let us return to the castle, and prepare for our siege; they cannot hope to overcome us then!"
Resheathing his bloodied sword without much care to clean the blood from it it he spurred his horse to return to the castle.
But even then he was made halt: a small company of riders had broken from the main host and coming in pursuit of Sigurd's company had quickly overtaken them. And so at needs he turned to face them.
They were not many, perhaps only a match for his own number. But it was a desperate battle, even so. Two fell to Sigurd's own sword as they passed him, one to his right, the other to the left. Some few of his own comrades were not so fortunate, however. Arrows swept past, some skipping across the armour they wore, but many others drove death wounds. And swords drew blood on both sides as they fought desperately to break free.
At last the final man of the enemy fell, toppling from his horse with a pierced heart. Sigurd looked about himself in dismay: the cost of the affray had been high: only one of his fellow knights remained, holding a blood darkened sword in one shaking hand, and a battered shield in the other.
"My lord, are you safe?" he asked, his voice a tremble.
Sigurd nodded his head, stilling his shaking swordhand and reigning his horse about.
"You fought valiantly; I will be certain to remember this," he said to the young knight.
"Tis but good fortune that you and I live, lord; these foes fought as demons, or men possessed!" the knight gasped.
And even then a great clap of thunder in the high airs shook across the plain, and Sigurd looked to the castle, a short ways yet from where they were, twixt fortress and wood. It seemed that a sudden and unforseen storm had broken loose in the skies above. There were dark clouds, billowing darkly with a touch of some unnatural foreboding, as though this were a menacing apparition of some fast approaching doom.
"What is this that has come upon us now?" the knight said, returning his sword to the scabbard hanging upon his horse's side.
Sigurd did not reply. For what words could give faithful description of the dread of the scene that now played out before their eyes? It seemed as if the very gates of hell had somehow burst, and its accursed flaming legions come forth in all their hateful fury. For, as Sigurd gazed upon the pitch clouds, a great evil befell. Heralded by darts of lightning, tongues of fire leaped from within the shadowy ceiling of cloud. But it was fire more akin to hail, only lit with a seemingly hellish flame. It rained down in terrible destruction, like to the very fires of Tartarus or some likewise infernal realm. Where it fell stone gave way, and masonry crumbled like sand. A tower flew into splintered stone as a hail of fire struck its side. It crumbled into dust, the fire still clinging ravenously to the tumbling rocks. The keep itself, so proud and mighty, was rendered rubble in a few fleeting moments, and flames rushed up from its fall in mockery. And last to fall, the main gate stood cloaked in a mantle of flame till it, too, succumbed to the fire.
To Sigurd the horror of this all, this grim moment, seemed to great to fully understand. It was as if the evil one himself were reaching his dreadful hand of death and ruin out upon the castle.
And then it was ended. The castle was destroyed, and none remained alive. That was a surely, for even if it had been their fate to escape the fall of stone and rubble, the fires would more certainly have claimed them. And of all those that had ridden out with him, but one young knight remained. Two, from five hundred that had been given guard of the castle.
Sigurd looked darkly upon this play, the red light of the fires shimmering in his tear-touched eyes. He had not before thought there to be such an evil living in the world. Indeed, he had heard but of one power so mighty that it could fell fortresses and kingdoms upon a whim. But did not all the tales speak of that power as being long ago vanquished? And by his very own father, no less?
He looked up to the sky where the enchanted stormclouds were now fading into the wind, perhaps the only joy to be found in all this horror. Yet still only faint rays of setting sunlight broke through these dark skies, like to veils of fine silk curtains.
"This thing... how can fate allow this to be?" he whispered at the wind. "What an accursed day, that this should happen before my very eyes. What grievous wounds you suffer, my beloved land. So many of your boldest perish at the hands of such infamous treachery and dishonourable sorcery."
He closed his eyes.
"And your many people, and those you hold as friends, who will now suffer alongside, my father's friend Serge not the least. I deem this shall be a hard loss for him, and I pray that he can bear it, for his wife is now slain by this same evil stroke. If my valour is so dampened in this loss, how much greater may he be stricken in heart."
The lone knight that remained still steadfast at his side peered at him questioningly.
"Is it wise, lord, to tarry in such an evil place? There is no place left for valour here; this ruin will be a gravestone of shame, marking where the dear of Guardia perished, but what of us? What path is now left to us?" the knight asked, weeping as he said it.
Sigurd looked sharply up, the words of his fellow stirring him out of his mind.
"Indeed, naught more can we do here," he said darkly, and brushed the tears from his own eyes. Then, on a sudden, he started.
"My father! Yet he marches to battle with the enemy. Nothing he knows of this power wielded by his foes. Haste! With warning we must ride south, else all hope is lost. For while he yet lives, that at least remains!"
So saying he reigned his horse about, taking one last fearful, and mournful, glace back to the castle. A crimson sheen now sat upon the horizon in grim marking of the evil of the day. It seemed that they two had been all but forgotten in amidst the dreadful sorcerous assault, and perhaps that at least would be found to turn for good.
"Let all your souls be commended into God's gracious keeping," he said as he crossed himself, in final prayer to those many who had fallen this treacherous day. Then, with no further words, and but a small nod to his companion, he urged his steed forward, swifter than he had ridden ever before. South, and hopefully to a brighter sunrise.
----
But Sigurd's hopes were dashed, as has been told. His companion's horse had faltered on the journey, and they had been overtaken by the advance riders; only Sigurd had broken free. So it was that he arrived alone and weary; and he found his coming a day late, with all hope indeed lost.
And, as Sigurd stood, ashen faced and telling his dreadful tale of the fall of Guardia Castle, Serge felt his heart nearly founder in anguish. The words of Sigurd echoed in his ears as if they had been magnified a thousand fold: the fiery hail, and destruction raining from the sky, with the castle crumbling into dust. And Leena perished amidst those flames.
Crono turned to face him, for he saw at once the despair that these tidings placed upon Serge's heart, far more profound than any he felt in that moment.
"Serge! Do not despair! If Leena..."
And now, at the speaking of her name, Serge felt his heart fail him. He had been attempting to discern if, in some manner, all of this might not be real. That it was but some illusion or nightmare contrived to overcome him. But as Crono spoke he knew such pitiful hopes were in vain. He shook his head, and bowed it in grief, falling once more to his knees as a twin tears fell from his eyes. Now at last he fully understood the mind of Crono on that fateful night last Autumn when Marle had died. Emptiness, despair, and a dark confusion of unquenchable loss filled him. He found it a wonder his heart did give way under such sorrow. Yet he could not comprehend or understand, or do little more than weep. A broken heart was his only companion at that moment, and that is always grievous company.
"Leena is..." Crono stammered once again, not knowing what words of comfort to speak to his friend if, indeed, speech held any at all even in its vastness.
"Yes, dead..." Serge whispered, but devoid of emotion or understanding. What did it matter? He was dead now as well. Ah, not quite. His body yet lived, though it seemed that his heart was stilled.
"Serge!" Crono cried, the word breaking into his mind as a sudden unforseen flash of lightning.
But only for a moment, and it faded even as swiftly. His surroundings faded to distance and shadows. Where was his blade? He crouched and his hand rested on the cold leather haft of the Masamune. He closed his grip tightly about it, knowing what he need do. And his weapon would not deny him this end.
He made firm one blade in the earth. From somewhere, far off, he heard a cry, as if he were beneath the sea, it seemed.
"Make it quick. Don't make me suffer this day," he whispered, and his words were the only sounds his ears perceived.
There was no spoken reply, but he knew that his wish would be granted without question. He threw himself forward.
He awaited sharp pain of the chill metal, the burning as it pierced his heart, and the darkness closing in about his eyes and mind as he died. But none of these met him. Rather, he was faintly aware of some movement, but his eyes were clouded, and he could not comprehend what it was he saw. Then, to his astonishment, he felt the cold dirt on his face.
He blinked, his eyes clearing from the stupor that had been laid upon them. Where was he?
He tasted the dirt on his lips, and saw the ground before his eyes. And he felt his whole body sweep with pain. He rolled, looking up to the sky past the towering trees; they were darkening greed before a deep azure sky. This was certainly neither death nor Hades.
He stumbled to his feet weakly. To his anger he saw Crono, and the Masamune was in his hand.
"And what, I ask you, did you do that for, Crono?" Serge cried. He wiped the tears and mud from his face.
"As if I could allow you to take your own life," Crono replied sternly. "A disgrace to both you and me."
He stumbled weakly to before Crono.
"But...I don't want to live anymore. This is my choice."
Crono put his hand on Serge's shoulder, in a gesture trying at reassurance.
"A choice, yes! But an evil one, and not yours to make, for your life is not yours to do with as you please. You feel now that life is empty, and do not care for your gift of life; it will never wholly leave you. Trust me, in this, at least, I know your heart all too well," he added bitterly.
Serge didn't care for any such words, true as they might be. He grasped a hand for the Masamune, but being injured far more greatly than Crono, it was effortlessly pulled from Serge's bloody grip.
'How dare he keep that weapon, ordained to be mine, from me?' Serge thought.
In rage he struck Crono in the face, who fell back a pace with a tear of blood from his lip. But he stepped forward again at once. Serge turned his back on him, saying with angry and half wept words:
"Don't talk to me! Today, in one day, even in one hour, I've lost everything that I've ever loved! I've lost my wife, my friends, and every bit of hope I ever had. My heart has been robbed empty, and your fine words won't change that! Get away from me, and if you stand in the way of my death again so help me I'll kill you, too!"
Crono grabbed Serge by his injured arm, sending a clear lance of pain through his limbs and body.
"No, you are not yourself! Remember, you swore an oath once. The vow to our company. To Schala, and Janus. And to me, as your friend!"
"Our company? We were fools, one and all. Dreams are dead today. This is the day of darkness and night. And, frankly, I don't care about any oath or promise, though it damn me. I regret ever laying eyes on you, or Janus, or Schala, or anything in this life. Curse you all, and curse me too, because my life is worthless."
"Why? Why Serge?" Crono cried desperately at these hopeless words. "What you have done will always be, though Lavos enshroud all the world in night. You shall always have been a hero, and your deeds will never be counted worthless. And, above all this, you will ever be my friend. Remember what I swore you: amicus usque ad aras. I shall ever hold that vow as binding, though Hades himself should threaten me with Tartarus. Hold Serge, and see: you have not lost all, for you still have my friendship. So fate may still..."
But Serge only laughed with the grim laugh of someone who seeks death, heedless of all else, be it even joy or wisdom or love of friendship.
"Fate? Isn't this bitter. Serge: merely the pawn of cruel fate. Well, now I go to where destiny calls me. Give me the Masamune, Crono, or I'll take it from you."
In defiance of this demand Crono cast the weapon far into the woods at his back. Serge glowered at him in wrath.
"Very well. If that's how you want it," Serge said, his voice angry voice faltering from the twin strokes of grief and injury.
He raised a hand to his heart, and Crono saw his eyes begin to shimmer like sunlit pearls.
"Serge, hold! How can you know with surety that this is where your fate leads? Others need you yet. I need you! And this world will need you, of that you can be assured! Your heart is broken, un-mendable, maybe, and your mind may be overthrown, but your sinews still have strength, and so it is your oathbound duty to God Himself to use, to death, all strength that is granted you. Janus and Schala, Lord I grieve for them, stand as righteous testaments to this, for they lost their lives in the glory of completing what was tasked of them! Kill yourself now, and you shall have but damnation to follow, and your end will be truly worthless. Now, who among those that loved you would wish you this? Would Leena wish you to be separate from her by the chasm twixt heaven and hell?"
Serge dropped his hand and paused for a moment in thought.
"I don't care. This is the end for me. Goodbye, and I hope fate's kinder to you than it's been to me."
And he raised his hand once more.
"Serge, forgive me for this," Crono said, leaping forward even at that moment.
And, before Serge could do aught in any way, Crono brought a fist swiftly up and struck him in the head, laying Serge unconscious.
----
When Serge at long last awoke, he found his wounds much better than they had been. Though his limbs still pained him with every movement, no blood ran from his injuries, which was a good sign. They had been carefully bandaged, and perhaps healed somewhat by magic.
Yet still his head weary and muddled he sat up. He could scarce remember how he had come to be where he was now. To his mind the memories of that day returned only slowly: Schala, dying. Janus, dying. And Leena, sharing a like fate. Surely, it was all a memory of death. His heart ached with it in mind. But this good at least there was: though his grief was not lessened in any way, he found himself beyond the keen shock that had so affected him. He found the overmastering desire to end his own life had left him.
"Crono?" he called out weakly, hoping that his friend was near and would hear him.
"Yes, I'm here," Crono said, coming to beside him."I'm here."
Serge made to undo his bandages.
"Leave them," Crono commanded. "The wounds have only now begun to heal. My magic has only kept them from turning mortal."
"How long have I slept?" Serge asked. His mind had no understanding of how long, and for all he knew, it could well have been weeks. Neither dreams nor thoughts had come to him.
"But a few hours," Crono replied. "The sun has only lately set on this most damned of days."
"What's left now?" Serge asked, his despondent voice the twin of his mind. "I've lost everything I've ever held dear. You, everything but your son. It would be better, I think, if we'd died with the others."
"Perhaps," Crono muttered sullenly. "It seems very much like an end, does it not?"
Now it seemed that the grief had come upon Crono as well. But the fire of his heart was that of a hero, and so it always looked to some hope.
"Yet still we live, Serge. Tomorrow shall tell us what will become of our future. And I swear to you I will not die before I find some way of bringing just vengeance upon these murderers. But for now, let us rest. It is something we all need greatly."
Serge lay down weeping, cleansing his emotions with tears. The day had been the darkest of all days. It had claimed his heart, and nearly taken body, mind, and soul. But now, in the early hours of night, he saw knew he had outlived it, though scarcely. He thanked God for such a friend as Crono, without whom he would surely be dead now, by his own hand, no less. He would not again be the same, but he would live, at least. He was still young and his spirit, though undone for a time, must rise once again. For now work remained to be done, lest all that was close and dear to him, and his two remaining companions, perish in the fires of Porre. Vengeance would be at hand soon enough, and in that thought he took some small comfort.
----
Awaking from a night of restless sleep, Serge stood wearily.
"Where to, Crono," he asked sullenly as he ate the meagre breakfast that was left to them. As it was, there were not many with which to share their rations. Of those that had been living the night before, few remained alive. All told only two dozen remained with them. Twenty four, out of seven thousand men.
Crono took thought to this with a near despairing light behind his eyes. Yet, noticeably, he rallied what strength he possessed, and put his thoughts to the coming days.
"I do not know," he answered at last, his voice broken. "North, east... which will avail us? Wherever we go, there shall be Porre, and with them Lavos."
"We could take flight for the far east, where their legions have not yet come," a soldier said, coming to the campfire.
"To what end?" Crono said despairingly. "To run and hide, and live out our few remaining days till we die of sorrow? And Lavos will come near at our heels, even in the farthest east. We cannot fight, but we shall not run."
"Then what shall we do? What course is left to us?" Sigurd questioned of his father.
Crono shook his head, casting a branch into the fire where it sparked quickly amidst the devouring flames.
"I disagree, father," Sigurd said, seeing that Crono was in no wise about to come to any choice, "You have said we cannot fight, but I do not believe so."
Rising, he looked about him at the few gathered.
"We are less than thirty, but did not you yourself vanquish the greatest power that ever lived upon this earth with but a part of this number? Does not your scabbard hold the selfsame sword that slew him?"
In sudden anger Crono rose, his fiery eyes meeting those of his son.
"I failed! That power was not destroyed, for now it has taken its vengeance upon me, and all whom I have loved! I was a fool to think that I, a mere man, could ever be victorious against it."
Sigurd shook his head.
"Then let us finish the task you began in your youth, father. Let us together bring the final end to this menace."
"That, Sigurd, is a most easy thing to say here, away from the glance of his withering eyes," Crono cried. "But where does this power come from? Do you think that Lavos himself marches with the hosts of Porre as a warlord? Never. He has merely lent them his power, and governs from afar."
"Then I shall find him, even if I have to descend into the darkest pits of hell itself!" Sigurd replied, with such adamant resolution that Crono's fury yielded, and he sat down once more before the fire.
"You, alone?" Crono asked, looking upward to his son, seeing now the iron strength that he had come to know of own self, melded with the fiery spirit of his departed wife. Seeing it so plainly consoled his heart, bringing him some joy for the first time in a day.
"If need be. But some at least I hope shall follow me, if you will not," Sigurd said, wandering off to the far gathering of men.
Sighing, Crono cast another log onto the dying fire.
"So Serge, what do you say?" he asked after a moment's silence.
"At what? At Sigurd?"
"Indeed," Crono replied, glancing over to where his son was rallying those he could to his cause, "He speaks truly, see. We may be undone, but are not finally defeated. Death has not yet taken us, and so we must still have some reason for life."
These words recalled to Serge a memory from the past. Rise again, it told him. Trust to a better day. Radius had spoken that to him, foresighted words from a wise man who had seen many and much slip from his life in his years. And yet he had endured, and lived to be a greater man than before.
Serge nodded, some faint hope returning at last to his heart.
"Maybe," he murmured.
"But," Crono continued, "my son, zealous though he may be, has not the strength lead this struggle. Sigurd!" Crono cried, wearily rising from beside the fire with the aid of his sword. For the first in a day, a smile was upon his lips. Sigurd turned to the call of his name.
"You are right," Crono said, striding up to him. "And you have reminded me of how I once was, when I was but your age. And how I must be again if we are to outlive these days. For surely we cannot run, and so we are compelled to fight, battle with all our might against our foes."
He wandered to amidst the soldiers, his now rekindled zeal stirring a fire in their hearts.
"Some might think this to be a seeming end, but I tell you it must only be so if we do not seek now to make it otherwise. Some faint hope remains, and hope has been an ally that has never failed me."
Serge, coming to the group, felt his heart, also, enlivened by the bold words that his friend spoke.
"Okay, if that is what you are going to do, then I'll help. But where should we go? We can't well march through the gates of Porre."
Crono looked over, and there was a peculiar smile on his lips.
"Ah, indeed we shall. But not alone. We must first go to Medina."
At the naming of Medina many of the soldiers were shaken from their silence.
"They don't bear us any love, my Lord!" one said. "More likely we shall be taken their prisoners, than aided."
But here Serge came forward, his strength at last returning to him with his voice.
"No, they don't. But they aren't evil, and we might just be able to get their help. They hate us, but they'd much rather fight Porre."
Crono nodded.
"What is your name?" he asked of the soldier.
"Heladah," the man replied. "Of Carbonek in the south."
"Well, it is in some measure true, Heladah," Crono said. "The Mystics as a race despise Man, I will not call that into question. But do not we Men hate the Mystics, naming them fay and evil beings, to be abhorred and feared? The cause for this enmity twixt us is ancient, and is the cause of our both races alike, for while they have done us grievous wrong at times, so, too, have they often suffered great injustices at our hands. Truly, the Mystics are by nature no more evil than are we."
"My brother went there but last year on a merchant's errand!" the soldier said in return. "It was a full month ere he was released from their prisons where he had been cast, on a charge as false as any!"
"I should not fault their ill-disposition too greatly," Crono replied, fixing a hard look upon the man, "and only hope that they may cast it aside long enough to aid us, for we are all born into this world, and so Lavos is a common enemy. And it oft chances that even the most bitter foes rally at need to drive out a greater evil that threatens both."
"Where to then...to the city of the Mystics?" the soldier questioned, his voice betraying his uncertainness in his captain's strange wisdom.
"Yes, first to the isle of Medina. We shall make for Tel-Harfai, and I will beseech them as king of Guardia to aid us. Perhaps with their legions upon the march of war, we can come upon their capital unawares, and tear from their hands the power they so foolishly use," Crono said, his eyes shifting in thought.
"But maybe not first to Harfai. There is another hope, one that in my folly I had forgotten until this hour. For upon that island is hidden a great secret, that is now forgotten to all but me. Not only is Medina home to the Mystics, but it was some years ago that another once called that isle home. Near to the western-most shores of the island lies the smithy of the master swordsmith Melchior."
And now Serge at last understood the faint hope that had so suddenly lightened his comrade's mood. His mind echoed with the words spoken to him by Schala on the night of their first meeting the last Autumn. Three Masters, three Time Eggs. Two whose fates were come to fulfilment, a third remaining. The Time Egg of Melchior.
Breaking into the sudden thoughts of joy that came upon Serge, Crono continued his speech:
"There I deem we shall find the means by which we might undo the dreadful deeds of last day, and bring all of Porre's foolish might to naught. A Time Egg," he said, turning to Serge with a smile as he said it, "by which the deeds of the past may be forever rewritten, and the most dire of evils be averted."
And suddenly the world that but a moment before has seemed as a dim shadow of grief to Serge became whelmed in light more vibrant and warm than he had thought ever possible again. The past was written once, but could be rewritten, for Leena, at least, could be saved. All this while Crono continued, his words coming sweetly to Serge's ears, and calling his heart and mind to brave deeds of courage once again.
"Yes, this is our fate. It is so come death or ruin, or whatever other torment this world may devise. All we suffer now is but a test so that we are not found wanting when the greatest strength is required. And that day is near. Soon all shall come to everlasting ruin, if we make not haste to work in counter to this evil. If we fail so, too, does our world; it will fall to the tyranny of this new-arising ancient power. But may it never be said that while one of the race of Man yet lived that the earth fell into ruin unfought for! For who, if not Man, will guard it? We are the guardians of its ages; the calling of stewards was tasked to us in the morning of this world, and that will remain with us until it perishes. And now we are called to high deed: doom draws near, yet only assured if we do naught. Well, the call is given. How shall we answer?"
And at that the two dozen arose, their hearts cheered. In an hour, long before the scouts of Porre came to that place, they had set out. For doom or salvation...that was yet to be seen.
(Last Edited October 7, 2004)