CHAPTER XXI

THE RALLYING OF MEDINA

Eight days long they sped, crossing the countryside of Guardia. They had left the wounded behind, a choice that grieved Crono to tears, for in so doing he had surely doomed them to death. And yet to delay and care for them would bring to pass a greater loss, and he hardened his mind against any returning.

And it was not too soon that they departed. Ever at their backs they saw the great clouds of reek as the forests of Guardia were burned, and knew then that if the past were not changed, this was a foretaste of the bitter end to the freedom, and very lives, of the creatures of the earth.

But rather than speed them forward with its fear, this shadow seemed to weigh as heavily as a burden upon them, and even their limbs were slowed in the flight. What rest they could find they took lightly, ever in the fear of being happened upon by the marauding bands of Porre; and the symbol of the Flame was an ever-present horror in their hearts. Twice, once upon the evening of the second day, and then again on the morning of the following, they saw a rider bearing that emblem, and the very sight of it was a thing of terror to them. For it was the dread herald of their utter ruin, and the power it stood for was of the most dire evil, that which sought to quench what scant hope still remained in humanity's grasp. But whether it was known that they yet lived, and had found themselves a way to perhaps undo the plans of the enemy, they did not know; it was likely not for, as Sigurd said many a time, if their flight was discovered, not a man in the host of Porre would be spared in their hunting, and all the sorcerers should be at their heels.

Yet, even without so purposed a pursuit, their plight seemed more hopeless as each hour wore past, and ever they wished for a sight of the sea, cross which lay hope. So it was a great joy to them all when, upon the eve of the second of May, they at last saw the waves breaking upon the beaches. And here, at least, there was a feel of peace from the doom-ridden wind that had hounded them their journey long. The waves were as yet undefiled, sparkling silver on blur, and they had outrun the devouring flames that swept Guardia. Here were the East Havens, where the royal ships of Guardia lay harbored.

The old master of the havens had by some premonition or wisdom known of the dreadful things passing upon the western plains, and the ships were made ready to sail even as they arrived. Crono blessed the good fortune of this, though the men begged of him time to rest, to ease their journey-weary legs and hearts. But their king, though he pitied them greatly, knew that to rest would be folly, and would be a perilous step in doom's path. And so they manned the ships, heavy-hearted, weary, and distressed.

"What hope is there in this?" A knight cried as they cast off from the shore, for across the fields a ways inland great clouds of wreck towered, a hundred feet into the darkling sky, and all knew that their homes were now but little more and ashes.

"If we are truly without hope," Crono said, "then let our foes beware our fey wrath. We will perish with their blood upon our swords. But may it not be so, for there is hope. Yes, more than you know."

The man cast a sorrowful look upon his king. He was the sort who, by the dictates of hnour and knighthood, could not speak against the words of his king, but the doubt was made plain nonetheless. He could not believe that any power could undo this now.

"I can see that too," Serge said quietly to Crono, looking rather out to sea than towards the darkness of land. "Across the sea is hope. Your men have never seen the things we have. They can't believe that there are things so powerful that even history can be rewritten."

Crono shook his head, in an appearance of deep thought, then added to Serge's words:

"But from that we should take knowledge of how blind we ourselves are, and how much even we do not see, Serge," he said in a whisper. "I wonder, now: If we alter this day, if we can avert this doom, we will have forged history a new path, again. Yet will not those who live after know it only as it is, and not as it was? See, only our eyes, and the eyes of those with us, will know the truth of the matter. And leads me a certain wonder: was even my journey, and changing of history's path, the first? How can we know such a thing? It may well have been accomplished numberless times before, and if so history is but a ceaseless tale fashioned by the deeds of forgotten heroes who have ever saved this, our world."

"I suppose," Serge replied, "But no one really can know that."

Crono shook his head.

"Ah, I know of one who does with surety; but he would never speak of it, not even if begged. Once, long ago in the midst of my travels, I met an old man to whom all of fate was laid bare. His name was Gaspar, known as the Master of Time in old Zeal."

"Schala mentioned him once," Serge said, his voice trailing as he spoke her name.

"Yes, I believe she did. His domain is the very end of all time, the crossroads for all who traverse its plains, and I came that way many times in my quests. In some fashion Gaspar was my guide, though as his wont was he but gave me not more wisdom and advice than I needed. But once he told me that there were others, many others, who had travelled even as I did. I took but passing note then, being blinded by the urgency of my own quest, but now I think back on those words with wonder. Who are they, those phantoms that I do not know, who have done even as I? Do they know of us, or are we a mystery to them as well? Are they from a past age, or from ages yet to come? Are they of the race of Man? Dragons from before the dawning of our people? Or yet another, before or after, that we know naught of? Greater or lesser than we? What are their tales and stories of their lives? Do they know of me, or am I a mystery to them, even as they are to me?"

"Crono," Serge said tiredly. "Not today. I don't want to talk about things like this."

"It was merely my attempt at solace," Crono said. "These days have been dark for me as well. I had thought to perhaps weave threads of hope into them, with the thought that even if we fail, others may rise to effect salvation."

"If there are others, Crono," Serge answered, "This isn't their quest. It's ours, and I think that if we fail, there won't be any others."

Crono bowed his head solemnly, knowing it was true, and said no more.

----

They sailed for many days, each weighing the more heavily upon them then the last. With each passing hour it seemed the darkness grew in strength, spreading even across the sea, and assaulted the will of their spirits. At last some among them began to weep from despair, and even the three, strong-willed as they were, could not fully hide their own dismay. So it was a great joy, or as great as might ever be at such an evil-fraught time, to finally see the waves breaking upon the western shores of land. They had at last gained Medina, Isle of Mystics, and the resting place of their only hope.

With much speed they ran the ship aground, beaching it on the pebble-strewn shore. Crono was first to disembark, with Serge and Sigurd near on his heels. The others were more slow, however, a sure sign of the weariness that afflicted them. The commanding will of their king, and the duty they bore him, was perhaps the only thing that drove them to follow. Surely each of these was a brave man, and not a craven heart was in their midst, but how much of evil can mortal hearts endure? To some are given greater or lesser strengths of spirit, and if tested all falter in time. For the three, it was becoming trying. For the rest, it was near breaking.

They went onward some hours, treading lightly worn paths that wound over hills and fields, crossing on occasion near the verge of some small woods. Their tongues were silent along the way, however; any desire for light words had long since departed even from the three, who were most hardy.

At last they came to where the path crossed a small brook, and here the men would not continue onward. They begged Crono to allow them rest, despite the urgency that was upon them, for they were weary beyond any care.

"They won't go any further," Serge said sullenly. "I feel like joining them and just waiting here to die."

"But we cannot!" Crono said with a despairing voice, feeling of like heart, but obeying ever the wisdom of his mind. "We must continue."

But as he looked at the eyes of his people, and marked the overmastering despair they held, he knew that they would rather die there than continue on the quest. And so he said, with sad compassion: "Very well, those who wish may stay; I will not constrain any to continue further if they do not will it."

And at these softly spoken words all the men who had followed from the battle plain, save Serge and Sigurd, sat upon the ground.

So they continued, but three, their fear becoming all the more grave now. For how might three accomplish this thing now? Yet they knew that to despair was to submit to ruin, and so they dissembled whatever darkness spoke whisperings of abandoning this quest, and trode valiantly onward. Finally, even as the sun grew dim in the western sky, from twilight or perhaps the brooding darkness that lay upon the horizon, they came upon a small dwelling nestled in the very centre of a grassy vale. They had reached the home of Melchior and, if any hope did remain, it all lay within those humble seeming walls.

The unbarred door opened lightly to the touch, as though it had been long prepared for them to enter. Inside, however, they saw that little had disturbed the dwelling in a score of years. Dust breathed into their lungs, and the delicate weavings of spiders were the chief adornment.

Here and there lay books, small and great, filled with what knowledge and wisdom can be had in this world. For Melchior had been a man of surpassing strength of mind, counted as a chief Master of old Zeal alongside cunning Balthasar and the prophet Gaspar themselves. And even diminished in his exile to this, a far time, he had neither ceased to increase his understanding, nor to press the wondrous skills he possessed into use, thinking chiefly of aiding this darkling world, rather than give much care for his own honour or glory. Crono himself had been in this dwelling more than once; here it was that the Masamune had been reforged, before being held by the great knight Glenn of the South Marches, Crono's most valiant companion of old; here it was that the very rainbow blade that Crono held had been forged, with skill such as only Melchior had possessed.

But the man himself, though fit to be named among the mighty of any age, was mortal, and he had already lived many long years upon the earth even then. He had long years since passed into death, and this house stood as a fading memory of a man both great and humble.

"Are you certain he had a Time Egg?" Serge asked once they had searched the house through, to no avail.

Crono nodded, so that there could be no question about it.

"Without doubt," he said. "But where might it be?"

Sigurd shook his head doubtfully, however.

"Father, I doubt this, I admit. Perhaps ours was but a foolish hope, destined to end as it began: in despair and darkness."

But even as he said this, a shining light seemed to awake in the very middle of the room. It tumbled about, casting varying light here and there.

And then it ceased as, with a gentle thud, a white thing, in the shape of an egg, fell to the floor.

"Ah, you see, there, Sigurd?" Crono said. "You needn't have talked of despair! Here is the very thing we seek!"

Sigurd knelt by it, and raised it in his hands. To the touch it seemed both warm and cold, and through some reason it felt that a great and deep expanse, as though it was the void of the heavens, was held unseen within the silvern shell.

"This is a wondrous thing!" Sigurd cried, his hope rising even as it had fallen. "But how came it here now, and where has it been?"

"Such is the way with these things," Crono said. "They might only appear when needed, or when they are sought, or when it is ordained. Be cautious, my son, for the Time Egg, though created by Man, does not obey his wishes."

"And what does that mean?" Serge asked. "That it won't work if it doesn't want to?"

"If fate does not will it, no, even as the Epoch of old could not when Guardia castle fell. But let us hope that a greater will is at work here, and that all is ordained as it should be. Give me the Egg, Sigurd."

Sigurd placed the Egg in Crono's hands. The king took a long glance at it, and was silent.

The thing was still, and only the light of day, flashing in through the dust-darkened windows, shimmered on its shell.

"Does it need a spell?" Sigurd asked. "Perhaps one of these books might hold some secrets by which its power is summoned."

But Crono silenced him with a raised hand.

"No, this is no magician's toy. It needs no such thing. Masa!" Crono cried suddenly. "Selinros, what say you?"

A faint murmur was heard, and then a laugh.

"You are overlate in asking, old friend," Masa replied. "Or have you forgotten the ties that bind such things together? Melchior gave birth to us; his companion Balthasar forged the Epoch; and Gaspar, the third, created these. Yes, I have some power over that thing of Gaspar's, or in so far as any might. If it refuses me, there is naught that even I can do. But peace! it has not, for it was I that summoned it from where Melchior had secreted it. And so, too, will I charge it with the wish of humanity for aid. Hold near: I will speak to it on behalf of your race."

For a moment there was a pause, and then Masa said:

"Fate, it appears, favours you again, ever-fortunate friend Crono. Be swift, and do not tarry. The Time Egg will give you a chance, but it is charged to you to fulfill it!"

And at that a flash of light, as of a star, shone from the Egg. Then all was darkness for a moment, and thoughtlessness laid hold of the three.

----

Perhaps this was indeed the feel of timelessness, for after none of the three could in any way remember that journey. To memory its length seemed only a moment, and yet time enough, it appeared, had passed. When their eyes cleared they found the moon and stars high above in midnight array, and so knew that some time-travel, at least, had been accomplished. As no darkness lay upon their hearts, they took it to be a good sign and, indeed, when Crono studied the sky nearer (for he had some small skill in such matters), he said that they were at the least three weeks, if not more, earlier, by the difference in ordering of the constellations. Moreover, the Time Egg had done much more than they had wished of it, for Melchior's abode was no longer about them. Rather, it was no longer to be seen at all. The Egg itself was gone, destroyed or departed to whither it would.

For a long while they walked east (as Crono, by way of the stars, said it was), and for long they were in silence. It seemed a strange thing, even to they who had seen many strange things, to have so narrowly escaped from such a powerful doom that had afflicted the world. But at last the dawn touched in the eastern sky, and their spirits were lightened even further when they saw the graceful towers and walls of a great city in the far distance, forty leagues away: Tel-Harfai, the Citadel of the Mystics, was near.

This last stretch was long enough, but it was a brighter journey than any for over a week, and their steps were light. At long last they came to below the great walls, built nearly fifty feet tall from cut limestone, and were hailed by the gatewarden from on high.

"Hi, now! What is your wish in our city, you children of men? We do not gladly welcome your sort, so make a swift accounting of yourselves!"

At which Crono bowed low and, raising his eyes again, said:

"Our errand is of peace and friendship to the people of your race. I would pray you allow us audience in your streets; then you may weigh my words and purposes to better effect. But know that this day I am no enemy to the Mystics. I am Kronos Ter-Guardia, and so may you announce me to the captain of your watch."

Though he seemed loath to do so, the Mystic warden nevertheless unbarred the doors for them (perhaps thinking such three of little worry, in amidst a full city of his people), and they crossed the threshold, treading upon the main way of the city. And certainly there were no few Mystics here, for the city was great and vast, and they had arrived at the time at which the marketplace opens. And in the market square itself the crowd was even greater, perhaps numbering thousands.

The Mystics themselves were a varied people. Certainly they were not human, but neither were they a single race. For there, in the market square, were gathered many of those creatures that, in after days (or yet in other worlds), are thought to be but the fables of myth and legend. But here they stood alive under the sun, real and true, and no airy fairy-dream or the like. Long ago their forefathers had banded together under the banner of Mystics, a name that was later to strike fear into all the kingdoms of the West.

Here there were gathered Dwarves, their beards long and faces stern like the very stone that they delved. Their braided locks were adorned with copper and gold, and the other treasures that have ever allured their race (and which they laboured ceaselessly to mine and shape, in smithskill that few among men have ever matched). Deep places were their love, and they were loath to wander in the unroofed airs of the upper world, doing so only for the purposes of trade or journey. Then there were giants, creatures with the shapes and faces of wild-men, but two and three times taller, and with very much greater strength in their arms. These called themselves in their old language the Jotun, in memory of the days when their fathers had sailed to Medina from the far East in great iron ships. Less comely seeming, and more dreadful, there were Trolls, with their green or brown hide appearing like to the bark of some gnarled and ancient tree (and even appeared quite like stunted oaks, until they moved); these were far smaller than the giants, but of greater stature and strength than any man even so. Here and there wandered also Swart Elves, their skins shimmering in darker shades of blue or grey, or even black as pitch. It was said that it was these, more wise than all the others that, millennia ago, had risen to forge the first Mystic dynasty on Medina, after their race had sailed from their ancient homes in the far north, a lost land ever-enshrouded in mists they recalled in their legends as Nifelheim.

And it was among these, amidst the wondering and oft dark glances, that the three went. Crono strode boldly in the front, yet his hand was fast upon the hilt of his sword. Behind Sigurd, too, clasped his blade-hilt, and walked warily, with his sharp eyes darting ceaselessly at the Mystics that stood about the market, glancing mistrustful eyes upon them. And last came Serge; he carried the Masamune yet unprepared across his back, not willing to show any such threat to the Mystics. Of the three he, perhaps, knew the ways and hatreds of the Mystics best, for the demi-humans of his own lands bore distant kinship, and similar moods, with this people.

But surely the uncertainty of Crono and Sigurd was not unfounded. For the further they walked into the square, the more the Mystics parted with their faces scowling, till at last the three were ringed about by a great assembly. Then they could go no further, but stopped and looked about at the Mystics and each other. At last Crono stepped forward as speaker and said in a great voice:

"Guardia is in dire need, most noble children of Medina. It will fall forever, if not aided by the people of your isle!"

A great murmuring arose, and not a few of the creatures turned about, their faces becoming fraught with disdain. It was certain that they did not care for the fate of Guardia in any which way, and would not gladly aid it or its king.

"Mystics!" Crono cried. "I seek parlay! Answer: will you aid us or not?"

And at this a Troll, a monster of great strength and twice the height a man, stepped from the crowd. The bronze scales of his armour clattered noisomely as he came forward, showing him to be one of the military. His crimson eyes looked searchingly at Crono.

"We are Mystics," his deep and brooding voice rumbled, and all other tongues ceased. It spoke their language well enough, though one might not have thought so at a passing glance of its sort. "And you are an accursed human. Yes, I know well enough who you are, King of Guardia; I have no wish to bandy words with a Troll-slayer."

The Troll took some thunderous steps forward, crossing ten feet to a stride.

"For well do I and my people remember the injustices we were dealt at human hands four centuries past!" he growled, stopping before Crono, where he towered tall.

But Crono was not daunted by either his bulk or words. For he had he fought and vanquished mightier, and his errand was not one of war, but of alliance and peace.

"I will not have you recall to memory old feuds," Crono replied with calm. "Even as I shall not hold you accountable for the slaughter of my people, or any other such crimes of your ancestors."

This, it seemed, angered the Troll, and he brought the point of his lance against Crono's chest, and looked at the king with a dark eye.

But before he could speak any words of his own, another voice broke.

"Well said, Lord Kronos of the high realm of Guardia!" it said, deep and regal. "Surána! Greetings! For I am Teros Azarel, Lord Captain and Emperor of all Mystics of the East, and High King of the Twelve Races scattered about the world."

The Troll, at this court greeting, took pause and retreated a step, withdrawing his lance. Crono turned to the one who had spoken, and saw another Mystic coming forward, flanked upon either side by a magnificent company of gold arrayed Elves. He was a tall Swart Elf, though far smaller than the Troll, his height little more than Crono's own. But even so he appeared to bear a great majesty and power far outmatching the other. His skin was blue as deep azure, and he bore robes of dark crimson, adorned with gilded devices and jewels. His face, sharp and cunning, sat marked with a half-smile. Two eyes, as ebony and shimmering with the veiled power of a great sorcerer, looked searchingly over the three.

"Take only passing heed of my Captain," he continued, bowing in greeting before Crono. "He is a faithful blood-brother, yet does not bear great love for the company of your race. Is that not they wont, Lord Geirrodur?" he asked of the Troll, stealing a sharp glance in that way.

The troll bowed gracefully in respect of the words (or, rather, as gracefully as any Troll might, for their sort are not taken to much lightness) and retreated.

"But you shall not find me so harsh at your coming, not unless you give me cause to be," the Mystic lord said, returning his eyes to Crono. "So, make your purposes plain: whatever for has the great Kronos of Guardia come to Medina?"

Crono returned the dark eyes unflinching, though it seemed a struggle of wills passed unseen between the two.

"You would bandy fool's words at such a time? If you wish me to be plain, I charge you to do the same: you have heard what I have asked," Crono replied, not caring for the Mystic's taunting ways.

"Certainly," the Mystic replied. "My ears are not deaf as of yet, Kronos."

Azarel paced to the side with bowed head.

"So, Guardia is risen for but seven months, and already it slips from your grasp? I say, king, that you should do better to keep what is yours than this. But what is it to my people? The rise and fall of Guardia is of little concern to us and, indeed, there are many among us who would rejoice to see it forever humbled. Tell me, now: why is it that you come? For pity, king? Surely you will not have that, and neither will you have any aid against Porre without better reason."

"Lord Azarel, captain of Mystics, this doom goes beyond the death of kingdoms; it is of the death of all kingdoms, human and Mystic alike. For I tell you truly, the Demon has arisen again."

But quite to Crono's surprise, the Mystic lord showed in no way any surprise, and replied only with calm words:

"Ah, so that is it, then? The Demon has come upon the world again? But Kronos, I had thought that you had destroyed it. It is for this that you are known as a hero, and that tale even the Mystics know well. How, then, is it that it yet lives?"

Crono shook his head, and seeing with a certain anger that the Mystic seemed to be mocking him with his words, making light of the dire peril.

"I do not know," he replied sternly. "But its power marches with Porre. No land, no race, will withstand it. Not even the Mystics of Medina."

"And so with Guardia destroyed, and your army ruined, you come on bended knee to the Mystics, as a bruised child running to his mother in tears when it is his wont to be ever disdainful," Azarel said.

Sigurd was wrathful at this mockery, and Serge was startled at the disdain even the Mystic showed, but Crono was more sharp-witted than either, and saw things therein that neither could.

"Azarel, I pray you tell me: how do you know this? Guardia yet stands firm at this hour, and my hosts have not yet marched from my castle. And yet you speak of ruined armies. For my part, I have, through sorcery, come back some weeks to the past, even to where I stand now, and so I know of what will chance unchanged. But how should you know this? Have you been given some foresight?"

"Foresight?" Azarel laughed. "No, and yet the wings of time have sped me messengers enow. I have bandied words with you, and marked your replies. To my insults you have been ever courteous, and at this I marvel. So I will listen to what you say, King of Guardia, and forego feigned mockery. So, speak."

"I beg an alliance with the Mystics of Media, that we might march upon the citadel of Porre and vanquish the Demon for the last."

The Mystic lord looked carefully upon Crono for a time, then said with a grave voice:

"It is admirable. A request noble and filled with a doom of glory and valour for us all. Into alliance with you, I would surely have placed my people had you come but hours earlier without question. But things are otherwise now, and my high standing is dictated by another. We owe the allegiance of our lives to a lord greater than I."

Sigurd leaped forward, nearly drawing a deadly sword on the Mystic, at which every warrior in Azarel's bodyguard drew their own weapons.

"If you have joined faith with the enemy, you shall be the first to die!" he cried angrily.

It seemed to be a perilous situation, near deadly, but Azarel only smiled, and waved aside the swords of his guard.

"I pray you not be wroth, noble child of heroes: this is not in my hands. Our Lord has returned; if he commands a march, so be it."

"Do not draw your sword!" Crono said, staying his son's hand, then pleaded urgently with Azarel:

"Lavos is neither your master, Azarel of Medina, nor the master of any upon this earth. He is an enemy to all! He need only have the victory if we do not all, Mystics and Man alike, unite our strength against him."

But now Azarel laughed again, seemingly much amused by Crono's pleas.

"Perhaps you should take to listening more astutely, king of Guardia. Did I say that we had sword our lives to that accursed thing? Do not think so little of us or our honour! Rather we die to the last, than have such a thing befall us! But it is as I have said: our ancient Lord has returned and claimed his forgotten throne and captainship. If you would seek our aid, you must treat with him and sway his counsel, though I think that he is minded as you are. Behold! he comes!"

And so saying he swept to the crowds of Mystics, which now parted with great reverence. Between them was a figure. Yet he neither walked, as most things do, nor even fly with the wind as is the way of birds, but moved over the earth without moving its feet, as though the wind were bearing him, and a cape as great as wings caught the wind in behind it. He was tall, and the sun behind cast its form dark in a silhouette. All who beheld him threw their faces earthward in both fear and reverence. For even after four hundred years of absence, he still commanded their respect, so great was his legend amidst their race.

And as the setting sun flashed across the features of the figure, the three took in a sharp breath, knowing him.

Behind his back he held his scythe, and his dark regal hair shimmered.

"But, he is dead!" Sigurd breathed in awe. "Surely he cannot rise from the grave!"

As he came to the centre of the crowd, Janus stepped to the ground majestically, and it seemed the earth shook beneath his feet as his steel boots touched. Bowing his head in greeting, he brandished his scythe about once and cast it to the ground.

"Well now, Crono!" Janus said, his voice echoing in a clear shout across the space between them, "It appears you were too impatient to await me! What is this? Have you forgotten our oaths of friendship?"

In mingled joy and disbelief Crono ran towards his friend he had believed dead.

"I was told you were dead," he replied in wonderment, grasping Janus by the hand. Part of him did not trust his sight, fearing it but a phantom or illusion devised by some ill purpose. But it was no ghost. Janus clapped his hand across his friend's back, a grim smile upon his face.

"Ah, tidings of death, you say? I think Serge has greatly underestimated my power! No, I have not perished as yet. But I have not escaped that day fully unscathed," he added, tracing his finger across twin scars that ran from the length of his forehead, and crossed his right eye.

He turned his gaze to Serge.

"I do not fault Serge for thinking me perished: I was indeed very near to having death claim me. A grave peril, and an even darker day," he said, striding to where Serge stood. "Are you reconciled to it?"

Serge was stoic, little of his grief assuaged even by this unlooked for joy.

"Yeah. As much I can be."

Janus looked at him searchingly.

"Do not entertain thoughts of despair. I will have neither my friends nor allies sorrow-weakened. The north wind brought be news of the ruin of the castle, and the death of your wife was assured to me by the injured you left behind in the glade. But surely my seemingly miraculous return from death betters your mood!"

Serge shrugged at the words.

"Maybe a little, Janus. But I've still lost both my best beloved and one good friend, at the very least. I'm sorry, but I'm not much happier," he said, almost having tears return to his eyes upon being reminded of the sorrow of a few days past. It took great strength to keep from breaking down weeping whenever he thought of it.

Janus looked about, taking account of those gathered.

"Who else have you lost? Leena is dead, but who else has perished?"

Serge looked at him disbelieving. Did he not know of his own sister's death? Surely he had seen it on the plain of battle. And if not, couldn't he feel it?

"Schala?" he asked. "I had thought that your foresight would have spoken to you ere now on that matter," Janus said. Serge turned from him, speaking bitter words.

"Both Leena and she are still dead, and until even one of them lives, I'm not going to ever feel any better. Leena was my beloved wife, and Schala my best friend."

"That I am most happy to hear; perhaps now will your mood be lightened!" another voice spoke from behind. Serge turned his gaze about, not trusting what he had heard.

Before him stood Schala. She was, as Janus, gravely injured. A deep furrowed scar ran crossways from brow to cheek and marred her otherwise fair face. Her gilded armour was ruined and darkened from blood, spilled both of her own veins and of others', even as he had last seen. And though they were not visible, Serge was certain that her raiment hid not a few grievous wounds scarcely healed. Truly she looked as a maiden of war, even as a noble Valkyrie descended from the halls of the gods, hard from the day of battle, for, though her wounds stained her array and features in dark crimson, she made no sign of it as she walked to stand before Serge. She still lived, standing with her accustomed smile across her lips, arms crossways before her; it all brought a sudden light to bear on his heart, for she whom he had thought dead was not.

"Schala?" he asked, thinking suddenly that perhaps a phantom of death had come to torment him. But her eyes were as lively as ever, and proclaimed that she was no apparition, but a living being.

"Be comforted, I'm not a spectre, Serge," she replied. "Though, as Janus, I have rarely been nearer death."

"I saw you die," Serge answered, remembering now that he himself had seen her perish. Beheaded, nonetheless. "You can't be alive."

She shrugged.

"Can't? That's awfully final. Well, I should be dead now," she said then paused, but before Serge could once again speak his amazement she brought up a hand stilling his voice. "But as fortune would have it you did not see me die. The same enchantment that enwound the eyes of our foes blinded yours as well. Hard-pressed we were, but even so Janus still had his wits about him. I fell, and he raised a wraith in my place."

"Not a wraith, sister, as I have said. Her double, which I drew out, and that is what died. That is ancient magic, known once to the sorcerers of old Egypt," Janus said. "Such learning is not light to come by, and do not question me about it further. Sufficed to say, one may even say Schala did die, as judgement for the summoning of the accursed worm."

"We are five again!" Crono said jubilantly, coming up to the two.

"Yes," Sigurd said, with no less joy than his father. "Five with which to challenge Lavos! Indeed, great joy has come to us this twilight. What seemed as a bitter and fleeting chance now..."

"Now is but a fleeting chance, Sigurd," Janus said warningly, with uncommon caution, joining them as well. "Do not be so mirthfully overjoyed in this. Whether we are three or five, our hope is still small. Let us not like fools think our path to be any the easier."

----

But even Janus' words of warning did little to dim the keen joy that filled their hearts that day. Even Serge, still grieving at Leena's death, found much reason to smile. Firstly, the matter of Janus and Schala's very being there was made clear. As it was, all had fully forgotten the manner in which the two had first come to Guardia, many months before. As Schala reminded them, it had been through the Time Egg of Melchior or, rather, that one that rested in the other world (for truly the one from this Crono had made use of, and lost.) In her cautious way Schala had ever kept it near and hidden. And so, even as the great and ruinous battle had ended, and the two, brother and sister, had fled from it, they had called upon its power. By whatever will that thing possessed, they had been spirited to the very city of the Mystics, not hours before Crono and the others; fate, it seemed, was playing a strange hand in all of this. Schala still held her Time Egg (though why it did not depart, who knew?), yet she kept it as secret as ever. And as soon as that was spoken of, other matters were before them.

Throughout the day, Janus and Crono sat in war council with Azarel, Schala watching their contemplations attentively and offering what words of wisdom she might. Serge and Sigurd themselves found that the others had little need of either their advice or company and contented themselves to listen eagerly, for the most part.

"What we must do, Azarel," Crono said. "Is take their capital by sudden storm. That will be where Lavos is; he is vain and overproud, and will most certainly have forced himself upon them as emperor. But even with the greatest portion of their legions out now in the fields of Guardia, it will not be a light task to accomplish."

Azarel glanced to Janus, his eyes asking him of what thoughts his Lord had of this quest.

"I agree, Crono," Janus said. "What numbers would our foes hold at home? I trust they are not fools, and do not extend their hand beyond reason."

Crono nodded gravely.

"If they were, this should be far easier than it is now," he answered, unfolding a worn map that showed the continent of Zenan.

For a few moments, the three glanced across the map in silence. Schala wandered over and peered at it from behind their backs.

"Here," Crono said at last, tracing a finger in a line along the eastern coasts of the land marked as Porre. "Here they have in reserve their Home Armada, the Fifth Fleet. And here," he continued, pointing to the capital, "Will they have their Home Legion, the guards of the First and Second, stationed."

Azarel nodded knowingly.

"You are well informed. Our own spies report likewise. Their armada that holds the eastern seas is not a fleet to be trifled with, I have been told. I have heard report of no less than twenty great ships, armed with cannons; only a fool would take such lightly."

Crono sighed, a shadow of despair crossing his face.

"And I do not expect that you have any ships that could stand in contest to the great war galleons of Porre," he said.

"Come now, Lord Kronos!" Azarel replied with a laugh, his sable eyes glinting with pride. "I had thought that you, at least, knew something of the Mystics. Do you think that we are so foolish as to put no thought into warships when such an enemy as Porre lay but five hundred leagues to the west?"

"You have ships?" Crono asked, amazed, "I have always thought that you did not care overmuch for the sea."

Azarel shook his head.

"That is a strange thought. The Mystics are as variable as humans, and some indeed love the sea no less then your own mariners. And shipwrights enow live among us, and I daresay they excel at their craft more so than do your people."

"How many ships? If you say now that you have an entire fleet of your own, I will call you blessed for all eternity."

"Not that many, my friend," Azarel answered, raising his hand to halt Crono's eager words. "A score and two, no more. But we Mystics are unsurpassed at building of ships."

"Mystics are skilful, Crono," Janus added. "In things of craft, they are nearly peerless. Of Men only those of Zeal surpassed them."

"Naturally," Schala said from behind. "It was we who instructed them in the morning of their races. And it is with them that the old skills of Zeal live on most purely."

She paused, looking across the map.

"The armada lies in guard of their home shore, directly twixt Medina and Porre. We shall have to fight through as swiftly as we can."

"Can't we just sail around them?" Serge asked, though he knew as he spoke the words that somehow it was not a possibility.

Azarel took a glance over to Serge, his sable eyes meeting Serge's.

"No. If Porre is under the commandership of the Demon, then he shall know all we do. Great evil has great knowledge, and I doubt that our sailing out will go unnoticed for long."

"And," Schala added with a quiver in her voice. "We are running out of hours. Today is the second of April. The day of our doom will begin at twilight on the twenty-second. We must destroy Lavos before then."

"But your dozen ships," Serge asked uncertainly, "are they good enough to go up against those Porre galleons?"

Azarel smiled greatly.

"As for that! I should think so. Come, and you will see what the Mystics possess."

With a wave of his hand he led them from the buildings across the town. From every house they heard and saw the signs of battle readying. Serge found himself marvelling not a little at these Mystics, for though they were accounted the age old foes of Man, they had lightly all such aside.

Soon they reached the harbour, and there they stood high upon a sea-wall of limestone, overlooking the ship-havens far below.

Serge had thought, on hearing Azarel speak of galleons and such, to see a dozen fair sized ships moored in the harbor. But this far surpassed all that he had imagined. Eleven ships, greater by far than any he had ever seen in his life, sat tied fast. Though the six stood upon a wall one hundred feet above the ocean, the topmost of the sails went on above the horizon. Serge could only guess, but he thought these ships must be at least a hundred feet long, many levelled and with sails beyond count. And they were black. The hulls, keel to deck, were painted in deep sable, and even the sails, tied fast upon masts, were of like colour. Only the trimming was of different shade, and this gleamed bronze-golden in the sunlight.

And yet even these eleven wondrous ships were but a faint shadow of what the twelfth was. Serge had never thought anything of such size could be built to sail the sea. The stern deck sat at least fifty feet from the water, and the rudder was distant from the bow by nearly three hundred feet. Five great masts towered into the sky, each hung with sails so great that the smallest was larger than the largest on most galleons.

"Alas, had we been told of your need, we might have constructed greater to bear us across the sea," Azarel said. "The great warship there is named Naglfar, and is unmatched on all seas. I think this will suffice."

(Last Edited October 7, 2004)