Chrono Trigger 1. Prolouge - The Savior

Well now. Here's a story. It's about Crono Trigger. I guess we'll throw in some disclaimer stuff here . . . nahh. By the way, if you're not one for backstory, skip to chapter two to begin the gruesome death. Yeah.  
  
  
  
Lucca gazed out the bubble-dome cover over the cockpit of the Epoch. It was made of a strange plastic alloy that Lucca had spent countless hours trying to identify. Indeed, she mused with a smile, the hours spent at the end of time really were countless. Flashing by the vehicle was a fantastic display of color, with every color she knew, and some she didn't, playing across the abyss the Epoch knew so well. They played across space and time in the endless dance of the eternal, broad sweeps of depth and feeling, manifested into a shifting mass of light and darkness. She turned her head to follow one mass of color that she had never seen before, and, like as not, would never see again. Her line of sight ended up on the occupant of the second seat, the most powerful amphibian Lucca had ever met. Frog sat in the seat next to Lucca with a cloth and his sword beside his ever-present cape, which matched well with his sickly colored skin. Even before the hour of judgment, the green skinned creature had his thoughts turned to the shimmering blade of the massive sword he held. Lucca could only guess what was going on deeper in Frog's medieval mind. She knew he didn't fear death, but she wondered what it was that drove him toward this final conflict. Frog looked up with his broad, glassy eyes and Lucca realized with a bit of embarrassment that she was staring. She looked away from him and over to the other side, to the occupant of the third seat.  
  
A mop of red hair in wild tufts that were restrained only by a sky-blue headband was placed upon his head, the tunic he wore matching well the headband on his crown. Tall leather boots that were worn from miles upon miles of travel shod his feet. In the boots were solid gold buckles, the only luxury their occupant could afford to have. A set of baggy tan pants that were stuffed into the aforementioned boots completed the outfit. At his side was a plain brown sheath of unusual length. The handle to the sword contained inside was unimpressive, but once drawn, the weapon within was an awe-inspiring sight, and woe to the being that was the subject of Crono's wrath when the Rainbow was unsheathed. His features were that of royalty, and his face, from brow to chin, looked like a master artist, the likes of which are seen but once every thousand years, had carved them. Although Lucca had never heard him speak a single word, she knew that his depth of thought was unmatched, and his inability to speak left him enough time for introspection to make him wise beyond his years. He sat, eyes closed, hands open, and his mind detached from the battle ahead, like he already knew the outcome. Lucca also felt, to some degree, that this couldn't really be happening. She was, after all, seventeen years old. She knew in her mind that she was traveling to 1999 AD to stop an alien from destroying the Earth, but she didn't really believe in her heart that it was even possible. To tell anyone else would have her laughed out of the town. But as the colors around her focused into shapes and landscapes and fine details, she realized that it didn't really matter now. All that mattered was the battle at hand. She reached back without looking and touched Crono on the knee softly. He was instantly alert and touched her hand to let her know that he was ready. Frog was twirling the Masamune in his hand and seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. As the cry of Lavos split asunder the earth and ears alike the three warriors unloaded from their time vehicle and prepared their power. And in the distance, Lavos beckoned.  
  
* * *  
  
Only when Glenn lost feeling to his right leg did he realize that they were losing their battle. Early on, a wild blast from Lavos's head had incapacitated Lucca, and now Crono and Frog stood side-by-side delivering blow after blow to Lavos's form. However, Glenn could not stand on his left leg alone, and, taking one last swipe at the gigantic alien, he too kissed the dirt. All he could do now was watch.  
  
Crono stood ever silent as he saw his only backup fall. His sword stood ever ready before him, and his steel gaze fell upon his enemy's form. He bled profusely from a deep wound in his thigh where he had failed to dodge Lavos's burning sweeps. His left arm was shredded, with bits of flesh hanging off in a most sickening manner. This wound failed, however, to undermine his guard or slow his attack. As Lavos reared back to deliver another blow, Crono swept in and with a prismatic blur, he struck Lavos deep in what was perceived to be its chest. A primal scream emerged from deep within it, and Chrono was swept into the chamber wall with a sickening thud. The law of gravity took effect and Crono fell in a heap to the ground. Lavos was about to declare itself victorious when the stubborn boy rose once more to his feet. The monster was startled for a moment, with anger rather than shock. The foolish creature would not die!  
  
Crono smiled.  
  
It took Lavos only a moment to realize that its opponent was about to unleash something the likes of which it had never seen before. A moment too late.  
  
Crono stood, his body abused, his clothing in tatters, his scabbard destroyed, his sword bent. As he did so, space bent around him and Newton's laws disappeared. A bolt of green power blasted out of the empty heavens and struck the boy-man. He did not show any sign of discomfort or even seem to notice. The crackling power began to wrench the earth with alarming frequency, and chunks of rock and metal spewed up into the air. Crono dropped his weapon as the force of gravity that a moment ago had flung him to the bottom of the cavern lost its hold on him and he began to rise up into the air. Electrical discharge filled the cavern, striking boy and creature in turn. Lavos writhed in agony at the sudden destruction of its blood stream, but Crono seemed to thrive on it, grow with it, and nurture it. His left arm, a mass of charred flesh and shattered bone, hung by his side, but his right was outstretched, reaching for his enemy. Inside his palm, a glowing green sphere of light began to expand. Frog watched in awe as his friend's power took shape and form, became something greater than either of them, grew until Crono could not hold in within him any longer and not be broken.  
  
So, hovering there in Lavos's face, he released it.  
  
Lavos could not, for a moment, understand what was happening. His body would not respond. His brain couldn't function. Then he knew. The raw unadulterated power the boy possessed went far beyond anything Lavos could withstand. His being fell apart, his knowledge slipped away. The bonds connecting the atoms that he was composed of could not weather the onslaught, and Lavos dissolved away into the Abyss. 


	2. Chapter 1 - The Hospital

Hospital  
  
It was, in all honesty, a nice day. Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, the plants were green (or whatever color variant was natural to them). Unfortunately, Crono could not take part in it. Supposedly, he was resting in the bed so generously provided by the royal treasury (at the request of Princess Nadia) waiting for the surgeon, similarly provided, to come check on him and his wounds. In actuality, he stood near the small window, his heavily bandaged arm resting on the sill. He stared dreamily out the window, past the sea, far out to a small uninhabited island just visible on the horizon. On the roof of the building he was in, he could hear a bird busily chirping away. As he listened, his usually calm demeanor changed. His shoulders slumped down, his mouth curled downward into a frown, and his eyelids fell to slits. It almost seemed as if gravity had suddenly gotten stronger. Then, with a sudden start, he slammed his right fist into the windowsill, cracking the wood and leaving a mark on his hand. He slowly sank to his knees, until his cheek was pressed against the sill he had just smashed. He remained soundless as ever as two streaks of water fell from his eyes and struck the wood.  
  
* * *  
  
.pain.  
  
.Where am I?.  
  
The sickly green covering the walls, together with the harsh glare of light reflected off of metal, combined to make a sight with almost no visual appeal whatsoever. Indeed, the man was tempted to close his eyes again just to shut out the sight.  
  
Looking around, he noticed several things instantly. One was the tray of metal instruments beside him, and another was the man, obviously a doctor, bellowing for something that the patient had never heard of. However, his attention was most drawn to the item that was the cause of his presence in the hospital, a short, green arrow standing stiffly out of his chest. Another look over to the nearby table revealed two other such arrows with blood-covered tips lying there. As he was doing this, the doctor, having apparently gotten what he was shouting for, turned around and returned to the bed. He deftly snatched up one of the multiple tools on the table and proceeded to remove the third arrow, then patched the small wound with gauze and medical tape. After standing back a moment to view his work, he turned and left in a hurried clip.  
  
Once sure that the doctor had left, the patient carefully sat up on the bed. A wave of dizziness kept him abed a moment, but the feeling quickly passed. A short walk on unsteady feet led him to the small closet attached to his room, where he discarded his ill-fitting gown for the newly pressed attire within. A green tunic and purple pants that reminded him far too much of royalty found their way onto him, and a short sword slipped into his belt. A small crossbow, with a quiver of short, black arrows was placed upon his back, and a luxurious gold and silver brooch held his gray cloak in place over them. A quick search of the pocket of the tunic revealed a thick wad of money. The only other thing that he had was a small scrap of orange paper that had several lines of small, unintelligible symbols on it. On the top was the only thing on it the patient could make out. It said, in clearly defined letters,  
  
"Grumman."  
  
Stuffing the piece of paper back into his clothes, the patient shook his head, and stepped out into the hall. Almost instantly, an orderly turned about and said, "Hey! You can't-"  
  
With the grace of one with years of practice, the man whipped the crossbow from between his shoulders and shot the nurse in the left shin. Her scream was entirely disproportionate to the wound she had suffered, but she was used to seeing pain, not feeling it.  
  
* * *  
  
Crono was roused from his soundless weeping by a scream from beyond his door. Before the shrill sound expired, Crono had swept his sword up from its resting-place on the wall and bolted out the door.  
  
Retreating down the hallway was a garishly clothed man who seemed not to understand the sanctity of hospital grounds. Indeed, he brandished a crossbow towards any patient or doctor who peeked out from the confines of the their rooms. Suddenly, the man looked over his shoulder, and apparently the appearance of a battle-ready warrior forced him into a dead out run. Crono smiled grimly and pursed him as well as he could with his slight limp. Even with his disadvantage, it only took Crono a moment to reach the man and prod him in the back with the Rainbow.  
  
Apparently, Crono had become a little too sure of his abilities, and was caught completely flat-footed when the stranger spun about and parried with a short sword of his own. Crono might have been able to slice through the blade cleanly with a swift double-handed stroke, but his opponent's blade rang true, and besides, Crono did not have use of both his hands. So, the quick parry sent Crono reeling back into the wall with a heavy thud, and the man quickly followed up with a slash at the head. Unable to bring his sword up in time, Crono warded off the blow by bringing up his bandaged arm for protection. The other found his sword to be stuck in Crono's layers of bandages. Crono thrust upward below his wrapped arm, and the stranger barely avoided an unpleasant hit to the crotch. Letting go of his blade, the man brought up the crossbow and aimed it at Crono's stomach. Crono responded by simply slicing the tip off of the arrow. His opponent ignored this and pulled the firing mechanism, launching the headless arrow right into Crono's stomach. Without a point, it did little more than knock the wind out of him, but the man took that time to tackle Crono and knock away his sword. A quick brawl ensued, until the patient slugged Crono across the face, dazing him. He stood, rubbing his shoulder, and retrieved his weapons before leaving Crono to his fate. By the time Crono regained his senses and pursued him, he was gone. 


	3. Chapter 2 - The Tavern

If day is the realm of saints, and nighttime the place of sinners, then Crono walked in twilight. Many who knew him well would say he was as pure- hearted as could be - those that knew him as a kidnapper thought of him as the vilest of criminals. But none of them were privy to his thoughts. Which was not to speak ill of them, most of them cared deeply for Crono, or thought they did, and indeed knew him as best they could. But Crono had never spoken his thoughts around them. This was a result, not of secrecy, but simple incapability. Crono was born without the ability to speak. He was also born partially deaf in the right ear and with bad vision. A stroke at age three had given him a permanent tic all along his right side, so that his walk was a shuffling step and his right hand a useless, permanently clenched fist. He couldn't write, he couldn't speak, he couldn't even move without difficulty. In those times, he had cursed the world and God with the voice he did not have, cursed them for how he lived, and cursed Fate for dealing him the hand it had, taking from him everything but his mind, a perfect mind, so that all of his torturous hell would be crystal clear forever. He lived like this, useless and hateful, for months, years. His father died a drunkard, stabbed in the eye over a pint of the local brew. He lived then with his mother for years, being catered to and waited on. He contemplated suicide a few times, and might have carried it out, save for two things: his mother, who loved him, and Lucca, who spoke to him. Not often, and not much, but she would on occasion greet him, or inform him of some bit of news, or at the very least acknowledge his presence with a nod or wave, which was more than most would do. Not to say that they were unkind - but speaking to Crono was like speaking to a wall, or a bottomless well. Nothing ever came back. So he carried on in his wretched sort of half-life, believing himself to be doomed forever to be merely an observer, when a group of monks stopped into town.  
  
Religion had been fading for four hundred years, since the dark ages, but it was still not unheard of to see pilgrims in the world, and Guardia was a common port of call as a midpoint. However, this particular group of monks was not made up of the fat, well-dressed men Crono had come to expect. Rather, they were lean, and rather poor, judging from their garments and the gear they carried. It was clearly well cared for, but heavily worn, and handmade. So Crono, having nothing else to do, simply watched them. It was their reaction to him, though, that changed him.  
  
They didn't speak. Not to say that they never spoke, but they never chatted. They never spoke without purpose. When they noticed Crono following them in his cumbersome, shuffling steps, they didn't do anything. They did not studiously ignore him as most did, nor did they gape at him, or try to get him to speak. All day, he trailed along behind them, following them around town and to their encampment in the woods. And there they surprised him again. Without saying a word to him, they set out another cot. Although certainly suspicious, at that point he was so devoid of hope that he did not really care. And so he slept in that cot, and had breakfast with them in the morning.  
  
That was the beginning of his time with the Children of Fate. He ate with them, traveled with them, and learned from them. He never visited his mother - what would she have been able to understand? Instead, he lived with the Children. They were martial men, and many of them masters of their art. There was a painter, a theologian, a farmer, a carpenter, a smith, and even a sculptor. However, the two that he spent the most time with were Hardeleza and Tuggle. Tuggle had been a politician, and was the nominal leader of the group. Tuggle's age was indeterminate, but his eyes always twinkled, and his knowledge of the human mind and its workings was astounding, and from him Crono learned to see through what people said and what they did - right down to what they meant. It was Tuggle who taught him how to see people, and how he could speak to them without speaking, and understand thought with a clarity that surpassed a normal man's consideration. Tuggle taught him to control his mind and his thoughts, his emotions and his wants. But it was Hardeleza who taught him to control his own body. Hardeleza had been a monk much longer than the rest of them, although he had previously belonged to a monastery in the east. Hardeleza was a master of the martial arts, a god of combat and true master of his flesh. It was the months he spent with Hardeleza in which he learned to overcome his own sluggish form, to transcend the form and achieve a unity of spirit. He regained his hearing through pure force of will. He did away with the clenching of his arm and the uselessness of his leg, walking about like a normal person, forcing his limbs to obey his commands. At first, of course, he could only do it for a short while. But eventually he disciplined himself to keep himself erect and able at all times. Hardeleza helped him overcome his vision by simply blindfolding him for a month. Forced to survive without his eyes, when he finally got them back they were an aid, not a burden.  
  
Finally, after a year of traveling with the Children of Fate, he bid goodbye to his friends and returned home. He arrived at his mother's home as a fifteen-year-old warrior, wearing the clothes of a wanderer, a blood- red bandana and trail-worn boots with heavy buckles, and bearing a wooden sword, given to him as a parting gift by Hardeleza. His mother asked him what had happened, of course, but he could not tell her. He had learned to read and write, but to do so was torturous, especially writing. To explain to his mother what had happened would have taken volumes - and a hundred years. He always carried a small slate on which he could write a sentence or two, but he did not use it very often. His return precipitated some amount of gossip in the village - how the poor, retarded boy that had disappeared a year ago had finally returned, cured of all his ills save his muteness. However, the people had a short memory, and lost interest rather quickly when he did not reveal himself to be a long-lost heir of some throne, or a new hero, or some such other foolishness. His mother, out of the maternal love that all mothers have, took her son back with an embrace, and doted on him. Crono, although now able-bodied, was still not very sociable, and only one other person spoke to him on a regular basis- Lucca, the inventor's daughter. After his return, Lucca started having full-blown conversations with him - willing to wait the inordinate amount of time it took Crono to sign or write his response, she was perhaps the only one in town with the patience to do so. Even more surprising, perhaps, was Crono's patience in doing so. Although his fingers only moved so fast, his thought was instantaneous. He rarely was patient enough with himself to even exchange pleasantries with most people - but with Lucca, they both willingly waited through the extended silences in which Crono explicated himself. Perhaps it was her own ostracization that made her seek him out - maybe it was something else. At any rate, one of the few activities Crono devoted his time to was speaking with Lucca. Most of what else he did had to do with the things he had learned from the Children of Fate. He would go out into the woods every once in a while and practice the disciplines Hardeleza had taught him. Moving quickly and silently, observing what was hidden, and striking fast and strong. It kept him in shape, and it brought home dinner when he was tired of rice and bread - he and his mother were not poor, but they were not much better than it. At any rate, that was how he filled his days. All the way through to his seventeenth year, when Guardia celebrated the beginning of a new era with the grand and much talked about Millennium Fair.  
  
His actions and his part in the events that immediately followed his visit to the fair marked him as a hero to almost everyone who saw him. His role in the destruction of Lavos was, without a doubt, a pivot point of human history. All of his companions in the struggle considered him an altruist of heroic proportions. His life was a beautiful, come-from-behind sob story fit for an opera or a play. Lucca had come to see him in the hospital every day, and Nadia nearly that often, and both had assured him that he was the most wonderful person they had ever met. And perhaps that was what drove into the bar where he had gone upon his release, where he sat on a barstool and had quickly run up a significant tab. He considered the tall glass in front of him, a triple-something that marked his umpteenth stiff drink in the past hour. Am I fated, he wondered, to drink this in one gulp, or two? After gazing into it for another moment, he tossed more than half of it back in one swig, slamming the other something- and-a-half back onto the bar. Two, he thought to himself, despondently, and drank the rest.  
  
It was then that a purple haired woman slammed the door open and stepped inside. Most of the men looked up, as women did not usually patronize the establishment, and certainly not this woman. She was certainly attractive, and would have even been beautiful but for the face-distorting glasses she wore. Often bedecked in some newly created contraption or another, she was here instead in very modest clothes, and looked rather angry. Crono did not take his eyes off his drink.  
  
Lucca scanned the dim room for a moment, saw what she was looking for, and quickly stamped over by Crono's stool.  
  
"Crono," she asked, quietly, but filled with anger and concern, "what are you doing here?"  
  
He held up his empty glass.  
  
"Crono, come on. Why didn't you tell us they let you go?"  
  
He shrugged.  
  
She snapped. "God damn it, answer me!"  
  
He waited for a moment, and then made an obscene gesture. He did not look up.  
  
She sagged. "You're drunk."  
  
At, this, he finally looked at her. He looked her straight in the eyes and shook his head, then held his thumb and forefinger apart. No, but I'm getting close.  
  
Lucca sagged like a pierced balloon, and dropped into the seat next to him. "You didn't tell anyone when they let you out. Did you come straight here?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
Lucca was dumbfounded, "For gods' sakes, Crono, why?"  
  
There was a long silence, in which Crono stared introspectively at the bottom of his glass. Then he reached into his pocket for some chalk and, lacking a slate, began to write on the counter.  
  
Go to hell, he printed neatly.  
  
Lucca was silent for a moment, and then suddenly slapped Crono across the face, her face flushed. She stood there for a second, breathing hard, and then her hand flew to her face. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Crono, I wasn't thinking - "  
  
Crono waved her off, writing on the counter again. It's all right. I deserved it.  
  
She took his arm. "Come on. Come home."  
  
Crono sat still for a moment, then pulled his feet under himself, getting ready to stand up. Given another minute, he would have exited the bar with her, would have allowed himself to be put to bed, and the events that followed would have never taken place. But that time was taken away, and a life was taken with it.  
  
At that moment, the tavern door was thrown open with a slam and two royal guards entered, taking up positions on either side of the door. Then the Crown Princess of Guardia, Nadia to some, Marle to others, stepped through the door, Royal Guards before and after her. Her expression was angry, and her step hurried. She marched up to Crono, and, without preamble, began to berate him.  
  
"What were you thinking? That we didn't deserve to know you'd be released? That it was too much effort for a commoner like yourself to inform such unimportant personages as myself?"  
  
She was very upset, Lucca knew. Usually she resented being treated differently because of her status as princess. For her to be rubbing it in his face like that meant that she was beyond caring, and that meant she was likely to do something they would all regret later. "Marle, please-" she began.  
  
"Shut up!" she nearly shrieked. "He didn't tell you either! He nearly gets killed while in the hospital, but doesn't even bother to tell anyone, and then just leaves, without so much as a thank you for everything we've done for him, and that's just fine and dandy with you?" When she said we, Lucca knew, she really meant herself, and the time with the royal surgeon that Nadia had insisted Crono spend.  
  
But now Nadia had gone back to addressing Crono. "I don't suppose it occurred to you that maybe we were all worried to death about you, about how you were, that we were waiting for a word from you?"  
  
Lucca knew that what Nadia wanted was an apology, maybe some groveling. What Nadia wanted was for Crono to apologize for making her feel foolish about not knowing where he was. Lucca knew that Crono was not going to apologize, and was in no condition to do so even if he was so inclined. Crono had always been a belligerent drunk. "Marle," she began again, "Let's just go home, we can sort it out in the morning. It's late, we're all tired. It's been a long week."  
  
But Nadia was not to be placated. "You're telling me that? What do you think I've been doing this last week, having my dresses fitted?" She turned to Crono. "What do you think, Crono? Should I just not bother with you? Am I not good enough for you?"  
  
Crono turned his back on her.  
  
Nadia turned beet red. The royal guard grabbed Crono's shoulder and pulled. "Do not turn your back on the princess, commoner!" He commanded.  
  
Crono turned around.  
  
In the fleeting instant in which Lucca saw his face, she recognized the look he had. The slightly closed eyes, the flat line of his mouth, the muscles standing out in his neck.  
  
It was his killing face.  
  
The next few seconds were a blur, and only because she had spent the last weeks fighting by his side did she realize what happened. Crono spun on his heel and slammed the heel of his hand into the face of the guard that had grabbed his arm, knocking him backwards. With his other hand he had drawn the dagger from his belt and thrust it into the belly of the second guard. He pulled the dagger out of the man's belly, and as the man folded over, he slammed it into the side of the man's neck. He then released the dagger and grabbed the hilt of the sheathed sword the now-dead guard wore. Putting his foot on the man's shoulder, he shoved the still-standing corpse into the other guard whose jaw he had broken, pulling the sword out with the same motion. The whole process took less than a second.  
  
While the two guards at the door were still drawing their blades, Crono had swung at the injured guard and opened his belly before kicking him in the knee and dropping him to the floor, where he would stay. The two at the door started towards him, cautiously, coming around the table that separated them from him from both sides. Crono sidled left and engaged the first guard while the other was still coming around. The Royal Guards were skilled enough that Crono would not have been able to outfight him in the second or two that it would take the other to reach them. However, Crono didn't need to. He slashed at the guard, and easily parried blow. His right hand wielding his sword, he raised his left hand and, using the art that Spekkio had taught him, blasted the guard's face with light.  
  
The attack set his hair and eyebrows on fire, and reduced his face to a smoldering briquette. The man dropped to the floor. Crono, not waiting to see him hit, twirled around with a spin kick that connected with the approaching final guard's knee, which made a strange cracking noise and bent sideways. The man did not scream, but also did not have the leverage to parry Crono's blow while balancing on one leg. He stumbled and fell backward, and Crono slammed the sword through his chest, pinning him to the floor.  
  
The entire fight lasted less than seven seconds.  
  
The silence that followed was broken by Nadia's shrill scream. Lucca simply stared wide-eyed at Crono, not able to accept what her eyes had just told her. Crono slowly rose from his crouch over the impaled man, and turned to face the two women. The small, straight line of his mouth had been replaced with the spectral smile of a predator. He began pacing towards them. Nadia scrabbled backwards, tripped over the corpse of one of her guards, and pushed herself back on the floor until she hit the bar. Lucca stood her ground.  
  
Crono kept walking forward until he stood over Nadia, his face frightening and terrible. Then he blinked and shook his head. When he opened his eyes, the hate that had been reflected in them had been replaced with a shock and horror, as if waking from a nightmare. He extended his had to Nadia, about to help her up. It was then that Nadia pulled the small stiletto dagger out from her sash and slashed at him, trying to force him back. The edge cut into the palm of his hand. Then instincts took over, and, before Lucca's horrified eyes, Crono wrested the dagger from Nadia's grip. Before anyone could move to stop him, he had swept the blade across Nadia's exposed throat. Her eyes locked onto his for a timeless instant, then she gurgled and was still.  
  
Crono was frozen in place for a moment, and then stood. The dagger fell from his shaking hand. He looked at Nadia. His eyes cast about the room for, filled with desperation, looking for a reassurance, a moment of hope, a wakening from this horrible dream. Finally his eyes locked onto Lucca's, where found nothing that he was looking for. There was only pity behind those eyes. Then he turned and fled the tavern, running into the night with tears on his cheeks.  
  
Lucca watched him running into the darkness, then looked down at the face of her friend, bathed in firelight. In her mind, a decision was made. Then, wordlessly, Lucca left her friend by the fire and ran out into the night. 


	4. Chapter 3 - The Castle

"The Fifth angel sounded his trumpet, and I saw that a star had fallen from the sky to the earth. The star was given the key to the shaft of the Abyss. and out of the smoke locusts came down upon the earth and were given power like that of scorpions of the earth. They had as king over them the angel of the Abyss, whose name is the Destroyer."  
  
Revelation 9:1-11  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
While the fight raged in the tavern, a slight drizzle began. Within a few minutes, the skies were pouring the tears of the gods upon the countryside. The king's road was a track of deep mud, and the creeks and rivers all swelled up greatly. It was quickly building into a storm of torrential standards. The people in town stayed inside, knowing that it would be over soon, as was common with the storms of summer. Almost everyone in the kingdom sought some sort of temporary relief from nature's fury. The castle guards abandoned their forward posts to retire within the walls for the duration of the storm, for the castle itself was built upon a plateau, a great plate of earth looking as if it had been thrust up all at once from the ground. The only part of the castle that did not border on a sheer cliff was the front gate, which was staffed by twenty men. Because of the position of the castle, that was the only entrance. It was believed that only a madman would attempt to scale the cliffs, and even in he somehow succeeded, there was no way he could climb the smooth exterior of the castle wall. So the guard on the north, west, and east walls were light compared to the guard on the south wall. Because of that, plus the storm, plus the nighttime, all meant that there was absolutely no way for anyone to have spotted the man climbing the side of the cliff.  
  
The man was chilled and soaked to the bone, his long red-blonde hair plastered to his face. He looked to be of average of even skinny build, but the way he climbed the cliff face, pulling himself up with first one hand and then the other for more than a hundred yards straight up belied the musculature under his clothes. Finally finding purchase at the top of the plateau, he heaved himself up and scrambled across the thirty feet of brush to the side of the castle, where he paused a moment to catch his breath. Then he pulled two small hooks with custom-made handgrips and, with a grunt, dug one into the mortar of the wall. The west side of the castle was old and hand not been seriously maintained in many years, and the stones had been spaced far apart, with a great deal of filler between, which was now rotting and soft. Slipping the small hooks into the crumbling mortar, the man climbed the thirty vertical yards of the castle wall quickly and vaulted over the top, dropping to a crouch on the palisade. The rain was a torrent now, and the darkness complete. The only light was the flickering torchlight that came from the windows and arrow- slits in the walls of the keep.  
  
There were stairways down the wall in each of the towers around the castle, but the towers were likely to be guarded. The man took a rope he had liberated from the house of a fisherman and tied it to a tooth of the palisade, then let it down the inside of the wall. It dangled above the ground by some eight feet, but the man judged it would do. He quickly slid down the rope and dropped that short distance at the bottom, landing with catlike grace. Standing in the courtyard, he quickly scanned for guards he might have missed. But there were no signs of life out in the monsoon about him. Only a fool would brave the elements at a time like this - a fool, or someone in desperate need.  
  
The castle was a grand thing, all one great stone edifice, with spires going many hundreds of feet into the air. The grand keep itself was reputed to be an impregnable fortress - it had stood for near a thousand years. However, in these years of peace, when the tranquility of the land was unperturbed by conflict and the people did not dream of an enemy, the vigil over the castle had fallen from a thousand knights to a few score of guardsmen, working in shifts. The few knights and royal guards in the castle watched the royal chambers and acted as bodyguards to the royal family. Many of them were gone with the King to Porre for the conference that he had with the leaders of the southern continent. Most of the men that remained were posted on the wall and mainly in the gatehouse, huddled together around fires in the guardrooms, trying to dry themselves. Thus it was that only a handful of men were in the main hall of the keep, two flanking the great oak doors, and a few more scattered around the room, most of them half-asleep.  
  
The main door was not locked, merely closed against the elements. It opened slowly, and the two guards first thought that a freak wind had blown it ajar. That belief was dispelled when a man walked out of the night and into the hall. He was soaked to the bone, but seemed unconcerned about it. The two guards stepped up to his sides. One of them began, "Hold, sir. You-"  
  
He got no further, because at that point a knife pommel seemed to sprout from the side of his neck. His eyes rolled to his partner, who seemed to have a similar growth. The young man was standing between them, his arms crossed and gripping the two blades. He released them and the two men seemed to fall with impossible grace, red blood pooling on the floor and staining the carpet. The young man, with one swift, fluid motion, dropped the small crossbow from its slung position on his back and flipped it under his arms directly into his hands. He bent his knees slightly and instantly shifted into a bowman's stance, sighting straight down the shaft for a split second before loosing the bolt into the nearest man's throat with surgical accuracy. The three other men in the hall were alerted by this point. The two far men on the right hallway pulled their shields from the useless rest position leaning on the floor up into guard position, covering their bodies from arrows with the thick iron. The other man, who was the one from the left hallway and had not been shot, ran for the intruder, drawing his blade in a flash. The intruder did not have enough time to drop his crossbow and draw his blade, and they both knew it.  
  
Instead, he dropped his archer's stance and changed his grip on the bow. As the guard slashed at him, he took a step back from the swinging blade, and thrust the butt end of the rife down and underneath, stepping forward and bringing it up into the guard's jaw, breaking it with a telltale crack. As the guard stumbled, the man followed up, smashing the butt of the bow directly into the guard's face twice. The guard dropped to the ground, unconscious. The two guards from the right hallway were approaching more cautiously, and the young man had time to draw his unique blade and re- sling his bow. Turning to face the men, he fell into a combat stance, holding the weapon so that the curve pointed downward, one hand around the pommel, the other palm flat against the heel of the pommel. Upon seeing it, one of the guards recognized it. He furrowed his brow and brought his guard closer to himself. That was the same stance that he had seem the Princess's consort use fighting monsters in the forest, and used against the prison guards when he had broken out. No one else used it - it left you open on too many sides to be an effective stance for any but the quickest swordsman, and besides, it was useless for a straight sword, the official blade of the Guardia Knights.  
  
The guard looked over his shield at his opponent, letting his eyes flicker from the man's chest to his eyes. After a moment, his eyes were caught in the invaders, and the guard could only notice the glazed, empty look they had. It was if the attacker wasn't even paying attention. Thinking that now was his chance, the guard sprang forward, swiftly followed by his partner, sliding in for a swift thrust. The killer spun his back to the wall and lightly parried the blades. The guard was puzzled for a moment - setting his back to the wall was like slitting your own throat for all it did for you. But then a strange sensation came from his body and he looked down to see that his opponent's sword had swept upwards, cleaved his own shield in twain, and cut a similar furrow through his own body. The guard looked the damage over for a moment, and slowly fell forward. The final guard looked at the man, this destroyer, then dropped his weapons and turned to flee. He did not take more that a few steps before the shimmering blade clove through his clavicle and his heart. The man hung from the weapon as his life was pumped from him, and then he slid off and fell in a broken heap to the floor. His slayer stood over him for a moment, then gathered up a handful of the guard's tunic to wipe his blade clean. Satisfied with its cleanliness, he sheathed it over his back and ran soundlessly down the hallway, leaving the antechamber filled with corpses and death. 


End file.
