Three weeks prior…
Deep in the forest, three goblins encircle a man adorned in an embroidered red cloak, pacing counterclockwise around him as he holds his rapier aloft. He stands confident with perfect posture, his long brown locks betraying his gray temples as they dance in the balmy May breeze.
One of the goblins pulls back the slimy string of a crudely made bow and looses a clumsy arrow with admirable precision. It sails towards the man, but with a flick of the wrist he slices it in two and knocks it off its trajectory and lets it fall to the floor. The corners of his mouth turn up, his upper lip vanishing beneath his moustache.
"Ah, ah, ah," he taunts, wagging a finger. Quick as they can blink, the same finger reaches through the open collar of his pristine white ruffle satin shirt and latches onto a throwing knife that then darts toward the archer. It finds its mark and downs the goblin in an instant.
The other two goblins throw themselves at the man in red and attempt to pulverize him with clubs. He jumps back a foot, letting the clubs pound the grass near where he just stood. Stepping onto one of the clubs, he then slashes at the goblin wielding it. A mortal gash opens up. The other goblin takes yet another swipe at him, which he just narrowly ducks under. The club knocks the red feathered cap off his head. Kicking the club he stands on to the ground, he then reaches up to grab the hat out of the air and tosses it with a flourish at the third goblin. It falls gently on the goblin's face. Temporarily blinded, the goblin reaches up to grab the cap; this gives the rapier a free poke at its elbow, its club arm, and its neck.
This finisher opens the man up to a strike from the wounded goblin's club. He crumples to the ground and drops his rapier, bruised but not beaten, and turns his attention to his assailant who is rapidly losing blood from its neck. With not a moment to spare, the man makes three jagged strokes of his pointer and middle finger, summoning a great deal of energy, and then blasting the goblin with a blast of lightning from his palm. The goblin, fried, topples over lifelessly.
He leans back onto his elbows and breathes a sigh of relief. "Whew!" He runs his fingers through his beard to relax. The stillness after is broken by a peep from his trouser pocket. He reaches in and gently grasps a mostly gray domesticated fancy rat.
"You OK, Pachinko?" he asks. The rat chirps and sniffs at his fingers. He strokes it lovingly.
"They won't hurt you," he says therapeutically. "Don't worry. Ronturga's got you." He remains seated for a moment to comfort the rat before getting to his feet and pocketing the pet once more. Stepping over the felled goblin's club, he picks up his signature cap and brushes it off before putting it back on his head.
"What's a red mage without his hat?" Ronturga mutters to himself. He realizes how goofy he sounds and reminds himself that no one is around to tease him for it. He takes the rapier and sheathes it, then walks over to the archer and yanks the throwing knife from its eye. After cleaning the blood off in the grass, he returns it to the holster he wears under his shirt.
"Look out, Garland," says the red mage. "You'd better be ready for a Warrior of Light."
Chapter 2: The Fell Knight
Hours pass. The red mage stops for rest: a waterskin and some dried rations. He trudges on, northward bound. It's little trouble for him to reach his destination; if there is one thing the red mages excel at, it is their ability to find their way to anywhere they wish to go.
The Chaos Shrine, once a temple to a long-lost deity in the distant past, stands a shadow of its former self. It is fallen to pieces and choked with vegetation, housing families of rodents in any cleft they can find. The stone, once a smooth polished marble, has dirtied to a sooty gray that cannot be cleansed by rainfall, its most distinct features eroded away or filled in with mush so thick that they are indistinguishable from any flat surfaces offsetting them. Despite the unexplainable saudade that overcomes those who happen upon it, the shrine finds itself smelling of earth and nostalgia.
Ronturga stands before the doors. They are an obvious anachronism, petrified wood with hinges and handles not yet fallen into disuse. He takes his hands to them and pushes with all his weight. They do not budge. He grasps the handles and pulls back with just as much force. Again they refuse to give.
"Open up, Garland!" the red mage shouts, pounding with his fist. Naturally, nothing. It only makes sense that Garland would barricade the door from inside. But an obvious solution is before the red mage. The building is in ruins. Though once magically reinforced, those magicks have faded. Surely there is another way.
Ronturga paces around the right side of the building, fingers brushing along the wall to feel for the slightest crack. He finds nothing of note at first, but then he turns the corner and arrives at the back side of the building.
The outer walls are made up of marble columns at wide intervals and flat walls with obscured patterns on them in-between. While there are no tangible seams between the two, Ronturga does sees an opening. One of these columns is dramatically cracked from top to bottom, and the fissures radiate outwards into the wall and climb all the way to the roof. A few feet away, a tall oak tree standing straight and firm. He sees a solution.
Ever versatile, the red mage takes a gold pouch from a pocket in his cloak and tugs at the mouth. He puts his arm inside to the elbow, impossibly to an outside viewer but transdimensionally to the knowing collector of bags of holding. After feeling around for several seconds, Ronturga's hand emerges clutching a woodcutting axe. He pockets the closed pouch and begins to smack the tree at an angle with the axe. Within minutes, a hinge is sliced out of the trunk nearest the wall. Then the red mage proceeds on with chopping the tree, wiping his brow with his sleeve as he goes. Each strike echoes through the forest air. It's several minutes before finally the tree buckles and topples over its hinge, straight onto the edge of the temple. The outer wall is smashed like a bowl of eggs.
Triumphantly, the red mage throws a fist in the air. He tucks the axe into his belt and steps onto the trunk, gracefully walking along before hopping down into the shrine.
The inner walls are sandy brick, the floors slate and worn. The light from the hole in the wall betrays the long hallways on either side of the building.
"Garland!" Ronturga cries out. "You know why I'm here! Let the princess go and we don't even need to fight!" Garland does not answer. The red mage begins to walk, slowly, so as to be ready for any traps laid out for him. It is not long before he finds himself in near total darkness at the end of a hallway. He reaches for a lantern he keeps in his bag. He takes out his flint striker. He lights the wick.
A skeleton hovers in front of his face. Ronturga lets out a yelp, and then smacks the skeleton atop the head with the lantern. His careless strike shatters the glass and barely offends the creature. The candle within the lantern topples to the floor and ignites a patch of dried moss. The red mage drops the striker and the frame of the lantern as the skeleton bashes him with a large bone, a femur as well as Ronturga can tell from the dim silhouette crashing into the side of his head. He tumbles sideways, rattled.
He considers his toolkit: a rapier, some lightning magic, a woodcutting axe. None great options against pure bone; he'd need a blunt weapon. Getting back to his feet, an idea forms.
Ronturga charges the skeleton. It brandishes the bone club once more, then swings wildly as he comes within range. Anticipating this, the red mage drops to his knees and slides underneath, grabbing the skeleton by the wrist and latching on tight. He swivels around, wrenching the skeleton's arm and tugging until the skeleton's arm lingers above his knee until the two crouch face to soulless face. Ronturga takes his elbow and drops it heavily on the skeleton's arm; the bone snaps, dropping the club. The red mage releases the detached hand and kicks the skeleton away. He steals the club, winds up, and knocks the skeleton's skull off. The legs and arms immediately fall limp, and the skeleton topples over until every piece is consumed by the black void of the beyond and taken from this world.
Ronturga tosses the club. He turns his attention to the moss and stomps out the flames. He is careful to pick up the candle without disturbing the wick and to pocket the striker without igniting the flint. Then he carries on, lone light in the darkness, as if nothing had ever interrupted him.
The princess tugs at her bonds as pointlessly as ever, grunting as the rope burns on her wrists are once again subjected to the friction. It is one thing to be stolen away from your loved ones and your home; it is another to be denied the use of your own hands for weeks at a time. It begins an inconvenience, quickly becomes a concern, draws a curtain between before and after, then evolves finally into a series of existential questions: What are you without the ability to use your hands? To perform the most minimal of tasks? Will you ever again put an apple to your mouth? Brush your hair? Sarah recognizes there are worst ways to be—tortured, skewered, dead—but the persistence of her plight carries with it the added insult of time to think.
Garland had left her in this small, square room and barricaded it from the outside. She was at once certain that it was decorated for this express purpose: a shabby floor mat to sleep on, candles too high up for her to reach were she to manage to bring her hands back in front of herself, a bucket and paper to debase herself. Garland occasionally enters to collect the dross pail and bring her meals. Even now she is unsure where it comes from; he brings pickled radish and fish some days, rice and fried vegetables others. She is made to feel like a dog, lapping up water and putting her face into her plate, but survival is just that, and though softened by a youth in the lap of luxury, Princess Sarah does not lose her resolve to hold out waiting for a Warrior of Light to set her free. This hope is Garland's last obstacle; he occasionally comes to speak to her as if he were a newly scorned lover and tells her outright that once she resists him no more, they will be as one. She persists still.
Ronturga enters a long and tall chamber lined with columns, his skin still slimy from the bits of zombie flesh pulled off on contact during his run-in with a zombie in the halls. Massive lit chandeliers hang from the ceiling dozens of feet overhead, suspended by ropes attached to the outer walls; this room is still used.
Then, he sees him. Across the room stands a tall figure. His back is turned, but his silhouette is marked by angular armor with sharp horns jutting out from the brow of his helmet.
Ronturga draws closer, quietly. It becomes clear the man in armor is working with his hands from how he moves.
"Red mage," he says in a surprisingly human voice. "Fate seems determined to bring you into the arms of danger once more."
"I'm not looking for a fight," Ronturga says. "Just let the princess go, Garland. That's all this is about." He continues to creep closer.
"You never are." As Ronturga gets near, he realizes that Garland is in front of a cutting board, slicing up what looks to be a carrot. "But I need you to understand, just this once, that I need a little more time."
"Uh huh. Right. Time for what?" asks the red mage.
"I need time to make her realize her feelings," Garland replies. "She does love me. Deep down it's there. I've tried to make her see it."
"Well, not speaking from experience here, but I don't think taking her from her home and locking her inside a temple is the way to do it."
"I only brought her here to make her remember the first time she set foot in this place," Garland says. He sets down the chopping knife and reaches out to pick up his gauntlets from a few feet away.
"Yeah? And you think she wants to be here?"
Garland, placing the gauntlets over his hands, says, "I do. Her longing for me is not lost. Princess Sarah has a gift for visions of lives once lived. She sees through cycles you couldn't understand."
Ronturga throws his hands up and says, "You got me there. I have no idea what you're talking about. But I'm not leaving without her. Let the princess go."
Garland turns to face the red mage. "I have nearly solved it, red mage. It's taken me so many tries… But each time I pick up another piece, and I know… if I use just the right words, in just the right order, and make the choices that the universe demands I make with the time I am given… I can make her see me like the first time."
"What choices? Stealing the princess from her home? Dragging her miles from her family and friends? And are you chopping vegetables?"
"I've found that if I prepare her meals myself it helps with the homesickness. I had to isolate her to give her time alone with her thoughts. It is her mind that must work through this impasse." He holds out an arm, clutching a heavy blade as it materializes from the void. "And should I prevail here, I will lay your broken body before her and rouse that sleeping souvenir of the day she met me so long ago."
Ronturga draws his rapier and takes a fighting stance. "You don't leave me much of a choice, fell knight. Let's dance!"
"I am truly sorry for this," Garland says, "but there's no getting past it." He lunges at the red mage with a lengthy step and swings his sword with alacrity. The red mage jumps into a layout over the fell knight's head. But Garland seems to anticipate the maneuver; he snatches Ronturga's cloak from the air and slams him into the ground. Ronturga's lungs expel their wind.
"It is fascinating how you lead with that move," Garland says. "For once, I was ready for it." Ronturga makes a somatic hand gesture—the jagged signature—and grasps Garland's extended arm at the exposed skin between his gauntlet and sleeve. A shock arcs along Garland's nervous system and signals the muscles to release the red mage. Ronturga wastes no time rolling out of his reach and jabbing at his chest with the rapier. Snap. The rapier fails to puncture Garland's armor. Rather, it fractures. Garland chuckles.
"Now it's too easy," the fell knight taunts. Ronturga scampers away as Garland swings at him again. He ducks behind a nearby pillar. Garland buries his blade into it with a loud clang. It lingers there briefly as the knight attempts to wrench it free. The red mage swivels around and barrels into Garland, knocking him backwards. He makes a run for it.
OK Ronturga, what do you have to work with here? He grabs the bag of holding from his pocket and begins to feel around as Garland advances on him, sword in hand. Ball bearings?
The red mage chucks the ball bearings onto the floor behind himself. Garland gracefully steps past them without losing much momentum at all; he is clearly much, much better at this.
Oh god, OK, uh… apple? He lobs fruit at the knight. It's admittedly a good toss, dinging the knight in the head, but that is what helmets are for.
"Come now, boy," Garland says. "Give in to the cycle. You have died before. Let go."
"Rather not." Ronturga makes for the doors. He feels a powerful tailwind, and then the heavy wooden doors are slammed right in his face. The gust dies. Ronturga looks around once more; Garland advances on him at a respectable pace, and Ronturga realizes that Garland can outlast him in a battle of attrition at this rate. He starts to jog along the outer wall of the room.
That's useful, he notes as he passes the ropes suspending the chandeliers overhead. He fumbles in his bag once more, this time coming to the woodcutting axe he had used to chop the oak tree outside. I've got you now.
Ronturga breaks out into a sprint, headed back towards the far side of the room where he first saw Garland. He twists around to make eye contact with the fell knight.
"You cornered yourself, red mage," Garland says, marching forth once more.
"Oops." The red mage slips the axe into his belt.
Garland once again begins to step among the ball bearings on the floor. It is at this moment that Ronturga rushes him. Garland takes his sword in two hands and swings at the red mage. Once again, Ronturga leaps into the air, letting his legs extend straight and go vertical in a nimble layover. This time, Garland is not prepared. Ronturga grabs Garland by the shoulders and gets his legs under him. His heel touches down on a ball bearing and the red mage is off his feet once more. Arms wrapped around Garland's neck, the red mage crashes to the floor and takes the fell knight with him. Under the weight of all his armor, Garland falls hard, slamming down spread eagle on his back.
The red mage wastes no time scrambling to his feet. He takes the woodcutting axe by the handle and leans onto one foot before letting loose a highly skilled sidearm toss. The axe spins like a top as it coasts through the air. It severs the rope of the chandelier and dings off the stone behind it.
Ronturga is knocked off his feet. The quarter ton chandelier crashes down on Garland just a couple feet away. The red mage lands on his hands and looks to the fell knight.
Like the minions in the halls, he too is consumed by the void. The red mage lets loose a relieved sigh and rolls over onto his back.
Then he begins to laugh.
Sarah lies uncomfortably on her side in a vain attempt to get some rest. It is never easy to fall asleep with wrists bound behind, but she sometimes finds herself able to mold the pillow around her shoulder just right whenever sleeping on her stomach fails her.
This is not one of those times.
Minutes feel like hours as they pass without sunlight, and she struggles to clear her mind or at least transport herself somewhere beyond the temple walls.
The door creaks. She clenches her teeth and cringes, shutting her eyes and pretending she is not awake. A few seconds pass. She does not hear the shuffling of Garland's armor nor the clang of a plate on the tile floor.
"Princess Sarah?" comes an unfamiliar voice. She gasps, bolts upright and turns to look to the door. Silhouetted by candlelight is a man in a feathered red cap.
"Who are you?" she asks. He hurriedly steps towards her.
"My name is Ronturga Mistral," he says. He crosses his chest with a fist and bows respectfully. "Your father sent me."
"My father?"
"He's terribly worried," Ronturga adds.
"What of Garland?" she asks.
The red mage searches for words. "He is no more." Then he gets down on one knee next to her, where she can finally look upon his face. She sees the dirt and blood caked on his features.
"Are you a Warrior of Light?"
He nods, "I am." He looks down and sees her hands. "Let me get those off of you." She remembers her bonds. For a moment, she pauses. She feels an inexplicable apprehension but coaxes herself to turn her back to him. He sets the chamberstick down on the floor and begins to fumble with the knots. Though he is as gentle as can be, still she winces as the rope comes loose. She feels the sensation rushing back into her fingertips and lifts her hands in front of her face. For the first time she truly sees the deep crimson burns encircling her wrists. She falls quiet.
Ronturga puts a hand lightly on her shoulder and the other around her arm. He smiles sincerely.
"You're safe now," he says. "I can get you home." The words wash over her mind. The curtain of despair is finally pulled aside. She lays her head against his chest, hands trembling and swollen.
Then she begins to weep.