CHAPTER III
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OFFICERS AND WIZARDS
The trip to the harbour town of Termina was short, at least for a journey that traversed most of an entire land. Though it lay on the northwest, opposite Arni, the island was by most measures small, and they had reached the town by nightfall. The officer had kept up a swift pace throughout the day, despite the wound which, while not grievous, certainly pained him. He had not wished to pass the night in the wilderness with a prisoner to watch, and shunned the roads out of an unfounded fear of ambush. Serge, for his part, had no intent of escaping. What good would it accomplish as it was? He was turning himself in freely, in the hopes that his compliance might be of some benefit to him when the time came to defend himself.
The sun was just dwindling below the horizon as they crossed under the arched marble gate that marked the entrance to the harbour town. Long black shadows stretched far from the buildings, shrouding the abandoned streets in darkness. Before the Porre invasion Termina had been a lively city, and even nightfall had not been the end of the day during the dry seasons. But the curfews decreed by the Empire kept most everyone indoors after nightfall in these days. So it was that Serge and the officer walked down the streets alone, and only the darkness marked their passing. Serge glanced about, his fingers nervous at his sides. He had seen Termina many times before, both in the day and night, but on this occasion it held a certain menace.
The darkness, devoid of living things, weighed in on him as the lightless buildings stared ominously. And he was beginning to think the worse of his decision. Yet what else could he have possibly done, given the choices that he was presented with? Both ways were foolish, maybe: both that which he had done and that which he had chosen not to. Curse that fool Crono for starting this, he thought again. Wherever he was this night, Serge hoped that that self-important man was as miserable as he was.
“No resting, now. We’re almost there,” the officer said, and gave him a faint nudge. He had stopped walking without noticing it, and the officer was very eager to reach their journey’s end.
“Sorry,” Serge murmured, much annoyed by the man’s impatience. Serge could have chosen to make things far more difficult; the least the officer could do was show a little kindness.
Their destination lay at the end of a long street, seemingly even darker than the rest. Blackened windows stared out at him from dark buildings to either side. The guardhouse was a large construction, but built inconspicuously in the same style as the surrounding ones out of white limestone.
As they approached the door the officer faced Serge and looked sternly at him, pointing his musket at Serge’s chest.
“You’ve been awfully good up till now. Don’t go trying anything at the end.”
As bothersome as such talk was, Serge bore it calmly, in the full knowledge that there was no purpose in resisting, most especially now.
The soldier knocked harshly on the wooden door with a sound that echoed throughout the still night air. From inside a voice replied, angered by the sudden interruption:
“Whoever it is, go away! The guardhouse is closed for the night.”
“You should treat your commanding officer with more respect if you don’t want a court-marshal on your record,” the officer said roughly in return, much frustrated by the rudeness shown by his subordinates. “It’s captain Gaheris, returning from the south of the island. Now open this door at once, Lieutenant!”
The voice from inside did not respond. But moments later a click told Serge that a lock was being undone, and the door swung open.
“Alright boy, in you go,” the officer said and pushed Serge inside.
The interior was dimly lit and musty smelling. A few candles threw odd shadows on the walls and, by their glowing light, Serge saw he was now in a small room strewn with boxes. In one corner sat a small table ringed with some chairs. There sat several more soldiers stoically playing cards, though one seat was vacant. The one who had sat there now stood near the door, which he had just opened.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir. I thought it was one of those cursed town children again, thinking it amusing to knock at our door and race away.”
He paused, seeing Serge.
“And who’s this? Don’t tell me this is that dangerous outlaw from Guardia.”
The officer laughed heartily.
“This child? Certainly he is not a prince. But I’ve got a fair guess that he’s a collaborator with him.”
The lieutenant narrowed his eyes at Serge, looking him over more keenly and, in a voice that betrayed a mild disbelief, said:
“Then if you say it’s so, sir. But he appears to be only a village child to me.”
The lieutenant then looked back at his captain once more and said suddenly, as if a forgotten memory had returned to him:
“But you yourself have a visitor, sir. He came in this morning asking for you, as the commander of the Termina garrison.”
“I will see him later. I have my report to take to the governor at once,” the Captain said in reply.
The lieutenant shook his head.
“Actually, I wager that’s what he’s here about. He refused to tell me his name or rank, but by his dress, I think that he’s from the Imperial Guard. The Black Wind, or I’m a fool.”
The captain frowned darkly, his face growing ashen grey.
“The Black Wind?” he muttered. “What in heaven’s name are they doing here?”
The lieutenant appeared about to reply, but was interrupted. The door to another room opened with a faint creak, and in the doorway stood the figure of a man.
“To see how the emperor’s loyal troops are faring, Captain. I’ll take this boy off your hands for you. He is no longer your concern.”
He said it with a voice that seemed to come from someone quite young, yet quite steadfast and strong willed.
The man did not move from the shadows of the next room, and his face remained veiled in darkness. This did not cause the officer any small measure of discomfort, and it was surely against regulations to hand over a prisoner so informally; but he hardly wished to dispute the matter with an officer of the fabled Black Wind, whose very name was spoken with a sinister edge.
“Oh, very well,” he sighed, displeased, but even more frightened. The Black Wind had the power of the Emperor, and had the repute of ordering demotions or even executions with a word. And none could gainsay them in word or action: their commands were law. They were said to be the most powerful men in the Empire, save for the emperor or those that were part of the Porre Senate (though, in truth, their power held much more sway in the far flung colonies; in practice the generals and military had greater influence on the mainland).
Serge walked uncertainly towards the figure that stood motionless, and still partly hidden, in the doorway. And he paused, uncertain if he should so willingly surrender himself into the clutches of such a ruthless group.
“Come on in, you mustn’t be frightened,” the man replied upon seeing Serge’s uncertainty, with a voice that showed far more friendliness than the captain had shown toward him. Serge had trouble believing the voice belonged to someone from the dreaded Black Wind.
Nevertheless, his heart quickened a pace as the man led him into the next room and closed the door softly.
This room was yet smaller than the other had been. It was indeed no more than four stone walls and a roof, with a lone table at the centre upon which flickered a single candle that only dimly lit the room. At this table sat only two chairs.
“Sit down,” the man commanded.
Serge obeyed without question, and threw himself onto the small wooden chair.
The man before him did not sit, but remained standing, studying Serge carefully.
Serge likewise looked at the man, trying to decide what sort of person he had surrendered himself to.
He had now stepped into the candlelight and Serge could see that he was indeed young, no more than a few years older than Serge himself. Contrary to what Serge had expected from an officer of the Imperial Guard, the man had a pleasant face and, while he didn’t smile, he was not openly aggressive either; he was merely stern. Unlike most Porre soldiers, he wore no hat on his head, and his short golden hair sat combed neatly to one side. As with the other soldiers his uniform was blue. Yet he also wore a black mantle with silver trimming, and emblazoned with a gold chimera crossed with a sword. This was the mark of the Black Wind. At his hip sat both a small musket and gold enwound sabre.
He placed both hands on the table and stared down at Serge.
“So, what have you to say for yourself, child? The Captain seems to believe you are a traitor and collaborator with the enemies of Porre.”
Serge was slow to answer. He was unsure as what to say. The man frowned sensing his discomfort.
“Perhaps we have begun wrong.”
He stood up again and began pacing around the room, still watching Serge intently.
“My name is Norris. I am the Captain of the Second Company of the First Century of the Imperial Guard. I have come here to El Nido from the mainland on an errand of great importance to the security of our Empire. And it is just this: a dangerous traitor recently arrived here from the mainland. But, from what I have heard, you may have already had the unfortunate experience of meeting him. However, perhaps we should begin in somewhat different of a way. What is your name?”
“Serge,” Serge replied, seeing only now how dangerous the situation was. He had no wish to cross the Black Wind.
“Very well, Serge. Will you now tell me what you know of this?”
Serge thought for a moment. He no longer had any misgivings about telling of that fool who called himself a prince.
“Yes,” Serge said.
“Good.” Norris replied, finally smiling a little for the first time.
“Now, unlike those fools out there,” he said and raised his hand at the door, “I can see that you are no traitor, at least not willingly.”
Norris paused, letting Serge consider this for a moment.
“So please,” he continued, “answer my questions as a loyal citizen of Porre.”
Norris pulled up the other chair and sat down across from Serge.
“Firstly, I wish to know precisely what happened.”
Serge related, in brief, of his first encounter with Crono. When he had finished, Norris frowned.
“He told you he came to you for help? Do you, perchance, know why?”
Serge shook his head and said:
“No. He never had the time to tell me because the captain arrived.”
Norris sighed, disappointed.
“Strange...then, you met him again this morning?”
“Yes. We talked for a short while. He called himself the prince of Guardia, or something like that.”
Serge paused, wondering what Norris would say to this.
But Norris simply nodded.
“Yes, good and well. Continue.”
This was certainly not news to him, Serge realized in surprise. And he began to feel somewhat frightened again, wondering what it was that he had flung himself into, that led him into dealings with the Black Wind.
Serge slowly recounted the events that led to his arrest, all the while feeling his heart skipping nervously in his chest.
Norris sat silent in thought for a time. Finally he spoke again.
“So, Serge, you lied to the captain. Why was that?”
Serge sighed. This was the very thing, the very question, he knew must come and had dreaded from the time he had left the village.
“I,” he began, but found words leave him. He gathered his thoughts, and resolved to say what he felt, and deal with what would come of it after.
“I don’t know. Crono didn’t seem like an evil person for one thing. And it seemed the right thing to do.”
He clenched his fist nervously as heart pounded with apprehension. His words had been too blunt. He ought to have been more tactful. No one would find any merit in such an excuse.
But his fears were groundless. Norris, it seemed, did not fault him greatly for what he had done, but rather rebuked kindly.
“You are not the first to do wrong by following your feelings. You must learn to be wary of them in the future. They can deceive you if you do not keep your wits about you.”
That he had learned all too well, Serge thought bitterly. He found himself shaking in relief now that what he deemed to be the worst was past.
“Moreover,” Norris continued, “I doubt that even telling the Captain the truth would have made a great difference. Except, perhaps, to get you killed. This brigand Crono is not a man to be dealt with lightly. He has slain many honest soldiers of Porre, and is renowned the empire wide for his mercilessness. But something in this bothers me, and it is this: why is it that the Prince of Guardia would leave his own country and come to the west searching for you in particular? You have no idea why this might be?”
“None,” Serge said emphatically, shaking his head.
But then he remembered something he had tried to forget.
What had Crono mentioned to him, on their first meeting in his room? About his dreams...some type of echo of his past? It still held no meaning to Serge. And what was it he had called him? A chrono trigger or some fool thing like that?
Norris sighed.
“Very well then. If that is all, by the authority of Porre I absolve you of any fault or crime. You are free to go.”
But now Serge had ceased listening. His mind had wandered back to the evening before, and was thinking carefully on the event that he had had a mind to forget forever.
Norris frowned.
“Serge?”
Serge looked up, Norris’ voice calling him out of his thoughts.
“Oh, it’s probably nothing. Some strange talk about something or other.”
“But this Crono is a strange man. He is a magician, and a cunning one at that. Even the slightest of his words may hold meaning. What did he tell you?”
“Well, he mentioned something about a forgotten past. And once or twice he mentioned something about a chrono trigger. I honestly have no idea what it means. I don’t even know if it means anything at all.”
Norris shook his head thoughtfully.
“Chrono trigger, was it? That phrase does sound in some way familiar, but vaguely,” he said, beginning to mutter to himself.
He looked up at Serge again.
“Well, I do not know what he may mean about the past having been forgotten. But this other phrase strikes me as somewhat, though distantly, familiar. I believe I saw it once in the histories of Guardia: I will consult them when I return east.”
Serge wondered somewhat at this chance that that word that he had puzzled over could have some true meaning.
“Oh,” Serge said, remembering a something else as he shifted his thoughts. “He mentioned a chrono cross, too. I’m not sure what that means, or if it’s even connected with the other thing.”
Norris looked up sharply and, for an instant, it seemed that recognition crossed his face. But for only a second, and it faded leaving him frowning.
“What did you say?”
“Chrono cross,” Serge repeated, hoping perhaps for some answers.
Norris closed his eyes, as if striving to remember something barely out of reach. But he shook his head as it eluded him.
“That seemed to strike nearer to my memory, but I cannot remember it now,” he shook his head wearily. “No, it must be nothing. Deja vu, in all certainty. Well Serge, perhaps you have been of some help after all. I will attempt to decipher what these riddles mean, but your part is done. You may go now. But I must ask you to come to me here immediately if you ever see this Crono again.”
Serge nodded and stood. Norris remained seated, and Serge heard him mutter under his breath:
“Curse that captain. If only he hadn’t gone alone. And these damned riddles. If this is merely Crono attempting to torment me with fruitless chases again, I swear I will have his head by winter.”
Serge stepped to leave, then turned to Norris one last time.
“Thanks...” he said cautiously edging in his words lest he disturb the man’s half voiced frustrations.
Norris looked up at him and smiled.
“I serve the people of Porre, and that includes you. You were innocent, a victim of circumstance. I did my duty, and you did yours. No thanks is needed.”
Serge shook his head.
“No, I’m really glad you understand and didn’t throw me in prison or anything like I’d expected.”
Norris was laughing somewhat at this, and was about to reply once again, but Serge never heard what he was about to say.
From the other room a mighty crash was heard, followed by the unmistakable sound of splintering wood. Norris leaped up in a heartbeat, throwing his chair to the ground with a dull clatter. He heard the soldiers scream in terror from the next room. All of a sudden a darkness gripped Serge, and it seemed as if all light began to fade from before his sight...
“Stay back!” Norris whispered to Serge, and Serge’s eyes snapped open. He couldn’t remember having shut them.
Norris reached for the door and threw it cautiously open.
From the darkness of the next room one of the soldier stumbled, falling into Norris’ arms. His face was pale and a wild fear was in his eyes. He collapsed to the ground. And now Norris as well began to pale, for in the next room stood such a thing as Serge had never seen before, not even in his darkest dreams. Dark and terrible it stood, and the darkness flowed from it. Norris, somehow, had managed to retain his courage and tried at fighting. He drew back the flint of his weapon and fired. But even as he pulled the trigger a lance of darkness struck him, and the shot went wild. Norris flew to the far side of the room and lay still. And now Serge was alone before this demon. But from some inner part of his heart he did not know existed a wild courage crept forth. Beside him lay Norris, unconscious or maybe dead, and at his side his sabre. Serge leaped for it, and his hand closed on the cold leather even as the dark being entered the small room with slow and heavy footfalls that sounded as though the feet were shod in metal. As it came for Serge he leaped upward, drawing out the steel blade and swinging for the monstrous thing. But, for all his valour, it did not avail him. The being carried a weapon of his own, a scythe of monstrous size, and the metal blade of Norris’ sword broke asunder as it struck it, and the shattered metal tinkled to the ground. Serge’s arms ached with the jarring force of the failed stroke. His heart beat madly, and he was sure his end was upon him.
Yet the figure paused. The darkness yielded somewhat, and Serge could now see it clearly. It was a man, or at least appeared to be. He was massive, and towered over Serge like a giant. His long dark cape billowed in some mysterious and darkly cold wind. Likewise his hair, a dark regal blue, fluttered out behind him like reeds underwater. In his gloved hands he held his weapon in an iron grip that Serge was certain could have crushed his neck without effort. But it was the face that frightened him most of all for, though it was not that of a monster, neither was it wholly human. The features were sharp, made even more so by the dark shadows that still danced about the room, and the face was slightly bearded. His pointed ears were nearly fay-like. And the eyes Serge could not meet for they burned red with a demon fire. Yet, though darkness was graven on the features, his countenance was not one of rage, nor anger. And he smiled.
“You’re Serge, child?” the man asked.
The voice chilled Serge’s heart. In its tongue echoed both cruelty and hate, though neither directed towards Serge. They seemed to be, as with his un-human features, merely a part of him.
“Yes...” Serge said, fear making him reply. And again the man smiled.
“Ah, very well, then. Let us go. We are expected.”
Serge had seen quite enough. Neither his heart nor his mind could fathom what had transpired in the past day. And now, standing before a man that seemed for all accounts akin to the grim reaper of myth, they despaired. His eyes grew dim, and he fell heavily to the floor, drifting into forgetfulness.
When Serge finally awoke, he saw he was no longer in the building he had been in. He could not see well, for his eyes were still clouded, yet he knew he was outside somewhere, as a chill wind swept through his clothes. He shivered in the cold, kneeling on the icy ground. Unable to see well yet in the darkness around him he groped about. At his feet was long grass, but no more could he discover. Soon however his sight cleared. It was indeed still dark out, and the moon shone like a leaf of silver in the starry sky. Its gleaming rays of soft light illuminated Serge’s surroundings with an eerie vagueness, sending monstrous shadows everywhere.
He could see he was in the midst of a clearing, round which the palm trees sat swaying in a soft nighttime breeze. He narrowed his eyes, attempting to see the area about him clearer. In the far distance the shadowed form of a fortress sat silhouetted in the moonlight. Fortress Dragonia? It was the only true castle in the El Nido islands, but only an old ruin seldom visited. In myth it was fabled to have been raised by ancient dragon lords, and from that legend had sprung its name.
Yes, that’s were he was. Strange as it was, for the Fortress was many miles east from Termina. But there was no mistaking it, even though it was no more than a shadow in the darkness.
Serge looked about him. He did not know how he had arrived at this place, however. There was no sign of any living creature anywhere.
He rose, his limbs aching with pain. The past day had been far more trying than he had been used to.
“Well...” he said to himself, “...what do you do now, Serge?”
“Follow me.”
Serge started, his heart nearly missing a beat as a voice spoke to him from behind. He turned, a sudden rising wind whipping past his face. And it was as he had feared. Indeed, he had not lost the demon that had stormed the guardhouse. Though now he seemed less to a monster and more as a man. Though the moonlight yet cast a ghostly hue on the grim face, and he seemed no less mighty, it seemed more the strength of a great lord than of something evil. The raiment, at least, was certainly not of shadows: he wore robes and a mantle of what appeared to be black silk embroidered with gold weaving, fastened here and there with gems or other costly adornments. In some strange, almost ancient, style he wore jewelled rings in his ears, and threads of silver were enwound within his dark locks. It did not allay Serge’s fears, but merely replaced them with another: this man was a sorcerer. But before he could think more on the matter, the man spoke.
“Apologies for that, but you fainted on me. I suppose you are not as brave as I had been led to believe...”
Serge felt slightly angered by this, especially due to the fact that it was probably true, seeing as he had fainted.
“...I carried you out of Termina a ways so those damned soldiers couldn’t find us. Not that I fear them, certainly, but I have been commanded not to slay any of them if it can be avoided.”
He said this with frustration, and Serge shivered with the realization that he was lamenting not being able to kill. He was immensely glad that this man’s bloodlust was not directed towards him.
The man folded his arms across his chest, his eyes resting on Serge intently.
“But I would suppose that you now wish to know who I am,” the man said sharply.
Serge scowled.
“Yeah, that, and a lot more. Like: why in the world you’re doing this to me? I mean, why me? Can’t you just leave me be in peace?”
The man frowned sharply.
“You seem to have a slight grievance. You should be thankful that I aided in your rescue, child. There are many who would consider that itself a supreme honour.”
Serge nearly choked.
“I was fine! They let me go,” he looked anxiously about, thinking that he was perhaps the prisoner of this man, “unlike now. And what do you care about me for, anyways?”
He was beginning to suspect this man was somehow connected to Crono. And, though he resented that, the words of Norris returned to him. The question of why he should be so sought after.
“I care, because I owe you a debt, and so am bound by honour. If not for that, I should not worry myself with your fate.”
Serge was starting to be less frightened by the man now. If nothing else, he did not seem to be acting maliciously towards him. And if he thought that he owed Serge a debt, that was all for the better. His only desire now was to return home to Leena.
“Well, whatever I did, you can forget it,” he said, turning his back to the man. “Pay it back by letting me go. I’m going home now.”
But before Serge could go far he felt an iron grip close tight on his arm.
“Go home? To what will you return? Nights without sleep whilst your dreams haunt you without mercy? Do you not want your questions answered?”
Serge wrestled out of the grip and turned, backing away.
“I did once, but now, well, I frankly don’t care,” he said vehemently.
The man’s eyes glinted darkly, and Serge could tell he had angered him. His mouth moved as if to reply, but he spoke no words. The man stared at Serge, and fear entered Serge’s heart once again seeing a darkness gathering in his face. Perhaps he had been too forceful...
“You will care!” the man growled. And he reached forth a hand, and from it dark light lanced forth. Before Serge could comprehend what was happening it struck him in the legs. The pain burned in his knees and he fell forward onto the grass ground, his hands clutching at his injured legs. He glanced up only to see another ray strike out towards him. He gritted his teeth in agony as the magic struck his face. It felt to his mind as if he had been both scorched with fire and frozen with ice alike. But it only lasted for a short moment, and he found his lips tasting the dirt, the harsh field grass scratching his face. He struggled to stand, his legs burning with a strange cold that seemed to drain their very energy. But he could get no further than his knees; he was once again struck, this time in his chest. Tears welled up in his eyes as he lay on his back and struggled against the pain. Yet despite it he managed to painfully rise. He could see wispy mists of smoke rising from his body, hazy in the silver light of the moon.
The man stood before him, a figure a fear once again...but now also a symbol of hate to Serge. A fury kindled in his heart. And then the man laughed, mocking him.
“Ah, look at the worm crawl. How amusing. I had heard that you were courageous. It seems that I had heard but fairy tales.”
Now the smouldering wrath welled up in Serge’s heart, and grew to a fury. In some unknown recesses of his mind, a locked door shattered. And something that had remained hidden from beyond the walls of time was released. In his anger he did not think about what he did, for it came to him as a flash of remembrance of something long forgotten. He stretched his hand toward his foe, his fingers outstretched. And then a point of incorrupt light welled up in Serge’s palm, flickering softly as if it were a new born star. Yet, for some strange reason that eluded him, it was neither frightening nor shocking. It simply was as it should be, as if nothing might be more natural. The light grew swiftly for a heartbeat, the wavering became steady, and then, faster than thought, it flashed forth and struck the dark man with a flash that lit the field like lightning. Serge heard the man cry out hoarsely in sudden pain, and saw him fall backwards heavily, clutching a hand to his chest where now burned a great dark spot. And then Serge acted on a sudden instinct that overwhelmed him. Though he could not fathom why, he knew what he was doing, as plainly as he knew how to walk. He leaped for his prostrate foe who now, as Serge had been attempting moments earlier, was struggling to stand. But as he got to his knees Serge swept his foot forward in a vicious kick to his face that sent the man’s massive body crashing back to the ground. And Serge was upon him in a heartbeat. Serge had no weapon of his own but in one sharp glace he saw that his foe carried at his hip a small sickle sharpened on the reverse edge. The man reached for it in alarm as he saw Serge’s eyes alight on it, but Serge was the faster. Before the man could reach it, Serge had drawn its curved blade from its sheath and gripped it tightly in his hand. He pressed the gleaming blade to the man’s neck, Serge’s eyes daring him to move.
But the man did not move; indeed, he did not put up a struggle of any sort. He lay unmoving for a moment.
Then, to Serge’s amazement, he smiled.
“Now that was well done, Serge. Few there are that could have bested me so,” he said with a small laugh.
He coughed as he spoke, still suffering from the vicious blow Serge had delivered him. And blood trickled from a gash in his mouth where he had been struck.
“And now, let me stand,” he said wearily. “I will not hurt you nor attempt to stop you any further.”
Serge frowned, but his heart seemed to instinctively trusted the words, though his mind proclaimed them false. Divided, he chose on the side of caution.
“Yeah, right. And then when I turn my back you kill me. Do you think I’m a fool?” he muttered angrily.
The man scowled and attempted to shake his head, but thought the better of it with the sickle blade still pressing sharply against his throat.
“Enough of this foolishness, Serge!” the man cried. The voice echoed menacingly in the still night. But from somewhere Serge had found a hidden courage, and even that seeming hell spawned voice did not daunt him. He shook his head.
“I just want to go home, and have you people leave me alone...” Serge said between his teeth, angered at the man’s sudden outburst.
The man sighed.
“If you will not see reason, so be it.”
In one swift movement of his arm, almost faster than Serge could comprehend, the man grabbed fast the arm in which Serge held the sickle. Serge twisted but could not shake the iron grip of that hand. The man stood again, pulling Serge up with him. Serge tried his best to strike at the man with his free hand, but it was swiftly caught before it hit. The man sighed.
“You young fool, what are you trying to accomplish by this? I am not your enemy. It is my will to aid you.”
Serge struggled in the grip, grinding his teeth in effort and anger. But the grip was firm, and Serge realized with a shiver that the man had been but toying with him earlier, letting him have his way for a while; whatever harm his efforts had caused, it had been less than it had appeared, and this dark man was hardly worsted by it. Serge glanced fearfully at him, but with his anger rising all the same.
“By killing me? Is that what you want?” he said in a peculiar mingling of fear and wrath.
With almost superhuman strength the man flung Serge to the ground at his feet.
Serge rose at once, the sickle blade still shimmering deadly in his hand. But rather than fight, or make some try at defence, the man stepped backward a pace. And Serge , for his part, paused, seeing that perhaps this man truly did not wish to fight. The man shook his head with a frustrated sigh and wiped the blood from his mouth.
“Do you not see it, even now, child? You are no mere fisher boy from some insignificant village.”
“What else would I be?” Serge replied angrily. He was tired of mysterious people telling him that he was something he knew was not.
The man laughed.
“And I suppose it is every village fisherman on this isle that is so masterful in such sorcerous ways, then? A fine aid in the day’s work, perhaps to quell an unruly catch?”
Serge paused half a moment, bewilderment coming into his mind. He had half forgotten about what he had seen himself do. Something that not all his reason could explain. He frowned at the man, reading his eyes.
“You wanted me to do that, then?”
The man nodded ever so slightly and bowed slightly with a smile on his lips.
“But of course. To prove to you that you are something more than what you think, so that you might believe me. I did nothing there but spur you on. The light and magic was your sorcery alone. It is a skill you once possessed, but long ago forgot.”
Could this man be speaking the truth? Once again someone was telling him that he had forgotten something. But now the answers were near. He simply needed to ask the questions. Perhaps he had been wrong in condemning his feelings.
He had to give it a chance. It was no longer the strange words of some phantom and dreams that haunted him. He had seen himself do a thing that he could not by his own reason explain. He nodded to the man, and dropped the sickle from his grip, hoping that he was not making a grave mistake in doing so. A keen excitement welled up in his heart, now unbound from its fetters. Perhaps it knew more than he did.
“All right,” Serge said. “All right, I’ll give you a chance to tell me. But one thing I want to know first: Was it that swordsman that sent you?”
The man nodded.
“You speak of Crono? Ah, in a sense. Rather, we were both sent on the same errand, if you will. That is a perhaps a more fitting way of saying it.”
“Okay, I thought so,” Serge said with a knowing nod. “Now, well, you can probably guess what I’m going to ask: what is this with me? I’ve got strangers in my window, and I can do things that I didn’t know I could, and...”
But the man silenced him, raising a hand.
“She wished to tell you this herself, but I think it may be better if I tell you something of it here. You have enough right to know a little, at least, before you meet.”
The man took a breath. The stars gleamed overhead, and in the quiet of the night the man’s voice spoke clear.
“Very well, Serge. I will tell you why I owe you...”