The Wheel of Chronos

[Tiber]

Heres the reason why I havent been on for the past three months. Ive been writing a story for one of my classes, that wound up being more than 36,000 words, and still needs alot of editing. I'll post it here and on the FK forums chapter by chapter, about one a week. I hope you enjoy.

The Wheel of Chronos

A brown robe caked in mud, frayed at the bottom from years of sweeping against the rough stone of the city pathways. That was all the protection the man crouching under the overhang of Jule’s Alchemy shop was given from the wind and rain that once again punished the streets of Cirill. This was to be another night of unceasingly foul weather. He had become accustomed to this climate, but his body still paid a high toll. His feet had become numb form the ice-cold puddles that he could not elude no matter where he ventured, and his face had become virtually frozen by the chilling wind.
“Damn I need to find some shoes” he cursed under his breath as his eyes combed the nearly vacated thoroughfare.
Why did he have to endure this hardship? Most everyone else was inside. Their bodies were dry, and their feet warm. They ate full meals without even the thought of hardship. Why couldn’t he be in the same situation? In fact, how did he even get to be in this sorry state in the first place? At what point had he been cast aside, by who, and why?
In the midst of his sorrow, the door to his right opened with a loud crack. There was something about the entryway to Jule’s Alchemy that made the slab of wood stick to it’s frame. Customers always made a phenomenal effort to un-jam the door, but Jule never bothered to fix or replace it. He had better things to do.
The brown robed man, upon hearing his queue ducked back behind a nearby pile of crates to keep from detection. The large wooden boxes reeked of something that the man could not figure out. It was probably just another oddball ingredient ordered by Jule. That mad potion maker; just like all the other alchemists, they would never spare any expense, be it money, effort, or time to find the most uncommon and supreme component for their new brew.
Peering over his cover, he could see a man dressed in a dark blue vest stumble out of the door, clinging to the wood’s handle for balance. His gaze immediately combed the street as he let the door close behind him. Satisfied with what he saw, or rather what he didn’t see, the man pulled down on his vest to straighten it out, and grabbed for his golden necklace, tucking it into his shirt in an effort to keep it out of sight.
Yes, it was plain to see, this man knew this street, or at least it’s reputation. He looked down every last pathway for dangers, taking his time to ensure that he passed without attention. He bit hard on his bottom lip as he went, a way to calm the nerves. The man had no intention of being robbed this night, for he no doubt had something valuable on his person. Perhaps money from a sale at Jule’s, or even better, a big purchase. Whatever it may have been, it was worth being protective of. Knowing this, the drenched beggar could not resist making this man’s prize his own.
As the blue vested man walked by, the man in the brown, muddy robes rose from his position behind the Alchemy shop crates. His eyes followed the clueless victim with a sharp, combing stare, sizing up his prey, and scouting for the move ahead. Those who lived on the streets had, if nothing else, a keen eye for people, and the man in the brown robes was one of the best. Deftly, he fell in line behind his target, stepping quietly, dipping his torn and discolored toes into the puddles, careful not to land flat-footed and cause an audible splash. The one in blue vests for his part did an excellent job avoiding the few beggars he did see on the street, darting right and left as he paced onward to form a spastic path of vigilance. The beggars were harmless enough, lying in plain sight on the street, emaciated to the point that most could not manage to stand. Still though, he remained fearful and cautious. No experience on the streets to be sure, because if he did know the first thing about the beggars on this pathway, he would have known that the pathetic sights he saw to his sides were not threats. The true danger was found in the street way denizens that could not be seen. They were the to be feared above all others.
And indeed, as the vested man pivoted to check his back, upon hearing the sound of a robe rippling in the wind, he learned that very lesson. It was the man he did not see, that he did not make an effort to avoid, that now bridged the distance between them with a few full strides.
“No! Please!” the victim roared with eyebrows pointed upwards and hands outstretched in defense. The man in brown robes said nothing, nor did he show any emotion. His lips stayed straight and his eyes focused, unblinking. This was something he had to do. He certainly did not take any pleasure in his course of action, but he had done the same thing before. Many times in fact, and just like every other time, he simply wanted to get it over with.
The man in blue vests yelled out as his attacker came within arm’s reach, but a quick palm to the face covered his mouth and drove his head down into a puddle on the cold stone street. There the beggar held his victim, whose attempts to push and kick free were futile. He was just too weak, too pampered, to contend with a brute born of the streets. A rusted old knife was drawn from within the attacker’s robe, and without any hesitation or showman’s flair, was plunged through the front of the blue vest, squarely between the first and second golden buttons.
The victim’s eyes widened for a moment as the pain struck him. The murderer soon withdrew his hand from his victim’s mouth, which now pooled with blood. Choosing to let the knife remain where it was for a bit longer, the brown robed man stood up and checked his surroundings for witnesses. He saw only other beggars who had all stained their own hands with blood at one time or another. Barbaric to the rest of the world, this was only commonplace to them.
He felt a cold rush sweep over his body as he looked at what he had done. He was not new to this experience, but nonetheless his adrenaline never failed to pump. It was a terrible act. He knew that well, but as his grimy hands swarmed over the blue vested man’s neck, feeling the texture of the thin golden jewelry, he could not help but feel proud. He would eat this night, and the next. Perhaps even for a week. He could barter for a used pair of shoes, or even a simple little knife to replace the brittle piece of rust that he now wielded.
The gold chain came undone easy enough, and was quickly deposited in the brown robe. He wanted so badly to wear it just once. To once again feel what it was like to have some sort of excess, just a taste of extravagance. He would have to wait though until he got to a safer place, lest some other hungry observer got jealous. With a twitching smile, the man continued his search. Where was the object from the Alchemy shop? He could have sworn he saw it placed inside of the blue… “Ah!” he declared with joy as his fingers found a small pouch within the left breast pocket. A lucky day this was.
As he loosened the strings of the small leather purse, he heard footsteps behind him. With anger in his eyes, he wheeled around to confront whoever dared try to sneak up on him. But before his head was even turned, a blade plunged itself into his left ribs.
The man staggered back to the ground, the large sword lodged in his ribs clanging it’s heavy handle off the cold cobblestone
“Wh…Wh…” the man spluttered with shock as he looked up to see four figures standing at his feet. He did not recognize them initially, but as his eyes strained, he was able to see one of the swords they had drawn. It was golden from handle to tip; it’s razor edge shimmering even in the rain. A horribly cold chill went down his spine as he now recognized his attackers. Only two people in the city could have had a golden sword, and it was a well-known fact that one of them was deceased. The brown robbed man’s eyes scanned each face in front of him with a look of dread. He knew these men, though they would not recognize his face. It had been burnt badly since their last encounter. With his energy fleeing from his body, the man lying in the street looked at his right hand. There he still gripped his recently procured pouch. “No…” he gasped as a revelation struck him. He knew what was inside. He could not let these men find it.
Awkwardly swinging his right arm up to his chest, the man’s fingers fumbled to try and find an opening into the brown robe. He had to hurry. They would not take this item. It was for their own good.
“Alright beggar. Your time is through.” Declared one of the attackers as he walked forward, his short blonde hair drenched in the rain that continued on down his face and formed a fountain off of his nose.
“Jerrit…Don’t…” pleaded the brown robed man as he lifted his bare left palm in defense.
The man who hovered over him paused for a moment, startled at the sound of his own name. After a slight hesitation, a temptation to ask the dying man how they were familiar, Jerrit steeled himself and immediately plunged his golden blade into the heart of the beggar. There was a horrible yell from the brown robbed man. Not one of pain, but rather one of sorrow. This odd impression was the last one that struck Jerrit as he felt his knees buckle beneath him and his consciousness fade.

[Tiber]

((sorry i forgot about posting here. Dosent look like anyone will likely read, but i'll throw up the next chapter since this place is looking rather dreary))

Chapter 1

“Have you found him yet?”

“Yes, I believe so.”

“Good. Chronos calls us to this man, urges us to find him. Those are wishes we must obey.”

“Yes, I understand Grandmaster. But what if he resits? I’m told that a streak of stubbornness, combativeness runs through him. He will not head my words easily.”

“That is something that will have to be dealt with when it arises. Now take your leave of this place Quinton. Go out, and set our plan in motion. Chronos begs results of us.”


“Hey I just saw his eyes open!”
A terrible pain shot through Jerrit’s head as he grasped at his first conscious thought. It was a rough way to wake up, but the pain left him as swiftly as it had arrived. Grunting as he opened his eyes and lifted himself from the hard floor that he rested on, Jerrit surveyed the room around him. He knew immediately where he was, but he decided to check his surroundings anyway, just to reassure his conscious state. The circular room was as he remembered. One of the only buildings in all of Cirill that was not built square. The wooden roof arched above him forming a dome, which protected them from the rain that could still be heard pounding outside. The weather was still the same…at least he hadn’t been out for too long. Below the unique roof was a dimly lit tavern with an open layout. The bar in the middle of the room, it’s counter mimicking the circular layout of the building itself. There were crudely carved wooden tables and chairs littering the rest of the floor, most of which were occupied by the regular nighttime patrons. Sighing lightly, Jerrit was relieved to know that he was safely inside the Fox’s Fang, his favorite tavern. Immediately he spied a few familiar faces, but none that were worth caring about. He had to figure out what happened before he did anything else. Gazing above his feet at the table closest to him, Jerrit found his three friends sitting casually, mugs in hand. He looked at them with a perplexed stare, hoping for answers, but their eyes appeared just as mystified.
“Glad to see you are up and awake Captain’” Said the man in the middle, his long black hair still dripping from the rain.
“…Thank you Darren. But do believe that as glad as you are to find me awake, I am far more excited.”
Lifting himself completely from the ground, Jerrit wobbled a bit trying to find his balance. There was one open chair at the table that his friends had been saving for him. It took a few extra seconds of caution to make it, but eventually Jerrit was able to plop down in his seat. Putting his elbows on the table and planting his head in his hands to try and ground himself, Jerrit struggled to figure out what had happened.
“Sir…We carried you here after you passed out.” Said Vaka to his right, his southern island accent thickening his tone of voice, “After you finished that beggar, you just fell to the ground for no reason.”
Jerrit nodded, “Yeah I remember that part, but I don’t know why. As soon as that guy yelled out, I just lost it.”
“Well, you know Jerrit, for the past few years, your head hasn’t exactly been screwed on straight.” Said Letty to his left, not bothering to separate his lips from his frosty mug.
Darren turned to glare at Letty with disgust, “You aren’t one to talk old man. Your head has been at the bottom of a flagon of ale ever since we abandoned the knights.”
Before Letty could respond in kind, Jerrit raised his had to interrupt. “This isn’t a time to bicker…and actually I must admit that Letty is probably right. But until I can pay another visit to Reyn, then there is no point in speculating. She will know better than any of us what is going on.”
Jerrit knew however that Reyn had no idea. Nobody did. From his first meeting with her, when she told him bluntly that there was no cure, he could tell it was a lost cause. If the greatest healer in all of Cirill, the High Cleric, could do nothing for his memory loss, then nobody could. “There may be no cure, but there sure as hell is an answer” Jerrit would yell at Reyn every time. “There is a reason I lost damn near three years of my memory! There is a reason why everyone thought me dead! And there has to be a reason why Darren found me unconscious a few miles from the south gate!” Jerrit spoke mostly out of frustration, and Reyn understood, tolerating his verbal abuse every time she delivered the bad news that there was another dead end in their quest to make his memory whole. Jerrit was not sure why she even put up with him. She did not charge him for her services. She was a cleric after all, and those of faith dared not seek money. At least not the honest ones. It had to have been for Klea’s sake. She tolerated him because he was idol’s brother. Jerrit knew that was the only way someone as pure as Reyn would ever be so devoted to helping someone as flawed as himself.
Trying to push the conversation elsewhere, Jerrit motioned to the small leather pouch that rested in Vaka’s large dark hands. “What is that?”
Always the quiet warrior, Vaka looked down at the bag, expressing just as much puzzlement, then proceeded to slide it across the table. “We don’t know. It came from the beggar we ambushed. He must have lifted it off of his own victim”
His curiosity piqued, Jerrit peeled open the mouth of the pouch and peered inside. Something smooth reflected the dim light of the tavern. A gem perhaps? Reaching in with his fingers, he pulled out a small, empty bottle.
After gulping down a mouthful of his drink, Darren nodded at the object. “Like Vaka said, we have no idea, but it must have been from the alchemy shop. I don’t know what good an empty bottle is, but we might as well keep it. It is evidence after all. Certainly not worth all that time waiting in that rain…But I did manage to get myself a shiny new necklace. It should fetch us a very pretty penny.” Pulling down the collar of his drenched shirt, he showed off his golden necklace to the party. “Poor sap must have gotten his hopes up pretty good,” he said with a chuckle.
Letty was the only person who found the humor in Darren’s comment. He laughed wildly, his voice echoing through the domed tavern as his chair tilted back to the brink of spilling over. The old man was too far gone into another night of booze for Darren to take any pride in his laughter. It was too artificial. The real Letty, the proud and stern Letty, wouldn’t have laughed. Vaka of course never laughed at anything. So it came as no surprise to Darren when the islander met him with a glare of annoyance. Vaka may have been in the tavern in body, his soul was back in his home. It always had been. What did surprise Darren though was the lack of acknowledgement from Jerrit. Usually one to at least give a smirk at an offbeat joke, the leader was now absorbed fully in the tiny bottle that he held in the palm of his hand. His eyes were transfixed, his mind oblivious to anything else. Something about the symbol carved into it’s glass had captivated him, it had captured his attention and refused to let go.
“Hey Captain…are you alright?” said Darren, baffled by his leader’s focus. “Do you see something in there?”
“Huh!” Jerrit started has he snapped out of his trance only to find everyone looking at him with worry. Even Letty’s full brows pinched together, barely visible over the top rim of his mug, in a look of worry that had not been seen since his days with the knights.
“Oh…um” Jerrit stumbled over his words, his mind sputtered in a failed effort to explain what he had seen. “It’s nothing…really I’m ok. My head feels a bit light, but I’ll be fine.” Reading his companion’s expressions, he smiled slightly, trying to put them at ease. “I’ll go see Reyn first thing tomorrow if that’s what you’re worried about. See if she can figure out anything else.”
Before Jerrit’s eyes could fall back down to the bottle, his attention was ripped away to the tavern’s front door. There was no slamming of wood or roars of anger that made Jerrit anxious, but rather the sudden silence that swept across the room. Such a raucous crowd was not easy to quiet, but the group of six men that had just sauntered in certainly did the trick. Every patron in the Fox’s Fang glued their eyes to the men, knowing full well who they were, and what their presence meant. The corrupt guards of Cirill, on another witch-hunt for criminals.
One of the men dressed in the standard full plate metal armor stepped forward into the middle of the floor and removed his helmet. He was just a grunt as far as Jerrit could tell.
“Lawful citizens, please go on about your leisure! We do not mean to interfere with your well-disserved free time. Our business here is with the former knights, Jerrit Landis, Darren Eubanks, Vaka of the Isles, and Lathias Patterson. If any of these persons are currently in this establishment, we ask that they come forward so that we may speak to them on official matters of the Guard.”
Darren and Vaka ducked their heads immediately as Letty continued to bury his face into his fourth mug of the night, all hoping to avoid eye contact with the prowling guards, but as Jerrit looked around and saw every last patron’s gaze turned in his direction, he knew there was no chance to avoid confrontation. Sure enough as he glanced at the guards, they were already on their way over, spreading out as they weaved through the tables.
“They don’t mean to just talk” Said Darren, his words stumbling with anticipation as he jumped to his feet. Vaka followed suit, grabbing the mace at his hip. Jerrit also stood, but did not ready for a fight. Instead he took the mug from Letty’s hand and helped his companion to his feet.
“Time to stop drinking now old friend. You may need to teach these guards how to fight.”
At this prospect, the older man leapt to his feet, drawing sword and shield without hesitation. “I’ll show these kids that my gray hairs don’t mean a damn thing!”
Once the last of the troops had been rallied, Jerrit turned to see all of the guards line up in a semicircle in front of them. They were ready for the four bandits to make a run.
“So? Where is he?” asked Jerrit expectantly placing his right hand on his hip. “Or did someone finally figure out that the last knight worth his pension left when we did?”
On queue, a breeze of arrogance seemed to sweep through the room as a man with long brown hair stepped from the middle of the formation, his glistening silver armor indicating the rank of knight. His chin poked upwards and his chest puffed out, further presenting his armor to all observers. “My, when I began this night I did not think I would be running into Jerrit the Fallen and his mighty group of bandits.” The knight’s words dripped with a sense of superiority, of entitlement, as they always had. Jerrit knew to expect no less from this man though. Vallius Morton had always viewed himself as a person of a higher caliber. Even dating back to his days as Marcus Therin’s unquestioning follower. The son of a lesser noble had been a knight in name only, hiding under the wings of those who could give him the security of feeling important.
The group bit their lips and held their breath for a few tense moments as they sized up the guards, who in turn did the same. However the silence could not last forever and it was Darren who spoke up, stepping in front of Jerrit, sheathing his sword and folding his arms in a sign of confidence.
“You may consider Jerrit to fallen, but you are alone in that claim. He is still more than twice the knight you claim to be, and even more still than the one that you actually are.” A hushed cheer materialized from within the crowded tavern as the patron’s observed with pride. Someone was giving the much-maligned knight what he deserved. A slight smile crossed his face as he watched for Vallius’s reaction.
Surprisingly though, the knight did nothing but return the smile, not even acknowledging the tavern’s collective dislike. “How I’ve missed your banter since your departure from the knights. I had almost forgotten how petty you could become when challenged, Darren of Ithis. I suppose having been expelled from the knights has made you even more bitter.”
Before a retort could be made, Vallius aimed his venom to another of the bandits. “I also see Vaka of the Isles is with us. The only man who even came close to defeating Marcus Therin in the arena. A truly great fighter to be sure…” Vallius paused for a moment as he looked into the eyes of each man before him. “But it seems that you were taken in by the wrong group. A fighter without a will of his own, or a sense of right or wrong is no knight…Isn’t that right Lathias Patterson?”
Letty lowered his shield for a moment as his name was mentioned. The old knight had no measure of respect for the upstart Vallius, and he knew what was about to be said, but still failed to hide his shame. Even he bore scars that even all the drinks in the world could not help cover up.
“What a sad story you have become oh great one,” Vallius mocked knowing his target perfectly. “When I first became a knight, Marcus told me that I should strive to be like you. Your sense of duty, your exemplary record, your selflessness. You were the most tenured knight, and the most steadfast,” his voice turned from controlled mocking tone, into something entirely more bitter, more personal. “Now look at yourself. You are so drunk that you don’t even realize that your shield is on wrong.”
Startled by the revelation, Letty quickly looked down to find that Vallius was correct. The long point at the bottom of his kite shield now poked his chin and the shallower top did not extend past his knees. The old warrior was more mortified than insulted as he clumsily used his sword arm to spin the shield around.
Jerrit, embarrassed for his friend, couldn’t help cringing at the sight. He knew Vallius’s words to be true, Letty was nothing more than a shell of his former self. Deciding to cut off the humiliation, Jerrit took a few steps forward to span the gap between himself and the silver knight, planting himself within breath’s range.
“Why don’t you leave Vallius? I’m sure that you have better things to be doing than harassing us.”
The knight’s lingering gaze at Letty was torn away as Jerrit blocked his view. A few of the standard guards shuffled a bit, alarmed by the aggressive body language, but before they came to the rescue of their captain, Vallius held his palm out, ordering them to stay put.
“You are very much correct Jerrit. I shouldn’t waste my men’s, and my own time pestering some rag-tag bandits…However when it comes to tracking down the perpetrators in a murder outside of Jule’s Alchemy shop earlier tonight, well then I think that is a cause worth spending some man-power on. Don’t you think, Jerrit the Fallen? The man who should be dead.”
At the accusation, Jerrit immediately took a step back and drew his swords, one made of cold steel, and the other of fine gold. The sword belonging to a Captain of the Knights, one of only two forged in the times of the original Count Cirill. There was something magic about it, but what exactly, nobody could ever know. Many blacksmiths had tried to duplicate it over the years, but they never were able to get the blade as unfailingly sharp, or as evenly balanced.
Vallius sneered at the sight of the blade’s glowing reflection in the candlelight. He knew this sword well, and coveted it more deeply than most anything else. It was what he needed to feel like a true Captain of the Knights.
“I see that you still keep that sword…though it does not belong to you anymore…” he said, eyes becoming mesmerized by the blades beauty, it’s prestige.
“Well,” Jerrit smiled, playfully examining the sword in front of his eyes, “This sword was supposed to be passed down to the successor of my choosing. You, of course were supposed to receive Marcus’s, which we all know, no longer exists. So I’m afraid that you are just out of luck unless I name you my successor…but I’m afraid that wont be happening anytime soon.”
Enraged by the insult, Vallius shouted out to his guards, “Arrest them for the murder of William Barton!”
Without hesitation, the guards drew their blades and began to walk inward, closing the semi-circle like a noose, trying to pin the bandits against the wall.
Giving ground to the advancing men, Jerrit stepped back until there was no more room to retreat. Looking to his left, he made eye contact with Darren, “Take the others and break through the right side. Get outside and I’ll meet you at the sanctuary.”
Darren wanted to argue the strategy, but he knew by now that when Jerrit wanted to do something a certain way, it was best to go along with the plan. Instead of protesting, the former knight nodded his head and ran in front of Jerrit, motioning for Vaka and Letty to follow, “Comon!”
The guard on the end of the formation was caught off guard by the rush, and could do nothing but lift his shield in defense as Darren swung his human-sized claymore horizontally. The mighty impact of the sword blew the guard backwards and onto the ground, denting his metal shield and sending vibrations all through his suit of armor. Having sufficiently stunned the first guard, Darren continued running as Letty and Vaka stepped forwards behind him, blocking off the next two guards that stumbled though the tables and chairs that littered the floor. For the most part the patrons of the bar were calm as they watched. Some fled in terror at the sight, their instincts telling them to run from trouble, but most sat and enjoyed the show, cheering on Jerrit’s group passionately.
Once Letty and Vaka had disarmed their men and pushed them to the ground, they followed Darren towards the door. The rest of the men in guards had no shot of catching the group, who had the benefit of speed, as they were not being encumbered by suits of heavy armor. One man though could have made it a race, but instead, Vallius chose to stand his ground, disregarding to the escapees. He only cared about Jerrit. It was only with him that he had a personal vendetta. Two guards came from the bandit’s left with shield’s raised, hoping to take him down by simply bowling into him. Seeing this, Jerrit crossed his swords across his body and spun to the ground, his back to the attackers. With shields in their face, they could not see his move clearly, and as Jerrit’s blades were unleash upon their unguarded ankles, they were helpless to adjust. Both men fell over the bandit’s shoulders and hit the ground hard, immediately wailing in pain as they found blood coming from the gaps in their armor.
Jerrit rose to his feet quickly and observed his work. The men would pose no more threat, and the three whom the others had taken care of still squirmed on the ground, their ability hampered by their pain as well as their bulky armor. They were like turtles thrown on their backs, helpless to get up. Without delay, or further words of insult, Vallius made his run at Jerrit. Drawing his single sword, the knight started his assault by kicking a wooden chair at his enemy. Jerrit had no choice but to stand his ground and take the hit, thrusting his forearm out to bat the object away. In doing this though, he exposed himself to Vallius, who charged with exceptional agility, pulling back his sword for one sound thrust into Jerrit’s unarmored abdomen. The bandit winced in anticipation as he swung his hips to the side. The blade bit into his left ribs only slightly on it’s way to burying it’s tip in the wall. The wound was nothing to Jerrit, and he was able to recover quickly. Gripping his feet to the floor, he brought his right hand down hard, sending his golden blade through the arm of Vallius as he tried to dislodge his own weapon. Cleanly severed from just below the wrist, the knight’s left hand remained on the sword, as it’s former owner stepped back, writing in pain. His eyes grew to the size of small tomatoes as he looked at his wound with astonishment. The sight made even Jerrit’s stomach churn as blood began to spill out onto the tavern floor. Deciding that the battle had been concluded, Jerrit turned and fled, jumping over tables and chairs as he went. Some in the tavern cheered him on, but most just stared at Vallius in shock. Most people had never seen something like that before.
Jerrit hit the door of the tavern hard with his shoulder, nearly taking it off of it’s hinges, and sending himself spilling out onto the street. After a few somersaults across the puddle-ridden cobblestone, Jerrit wearily picked himself up, feeling every bone in his body ache from the fall. Wiping the blood from a slight scrape on his chin, Jerrit heard a yell from up the street. It was panicked, but familiar. “Darren!” he shouted as he picked his swords up off the street and ran towards the noise.

[Tiber]

((Figured I might as well catch this one up to where the FK version is, so on a quick turnaround heres the next few chapters))

Chapter 2

“I have arrived in Cirill, and tonight I will find him, but are we certain that he is the one Chronos calls for? Are we really to ask so much of a man that has become so little?”

“The elders and I have looked into this man’s past and future. We have seen what he will accomplish, we have witnessed his triumphs with our own eyes.”

“I trust in Chronos to have shown you the true forms of these things, and I will execute your wishes as requested, for the prospect of a better world.”

“Yes, for the better world we serve.”

The rain had begun to die down and a slight mist began to pour through the streets in the early hours just before sunrise. The air was crisp, and cold enough to make Jerrit’s breath barely visible as it exited from his lips in pained gasps. He had not run so fast in years, and even though his legs had begun to cramp, he could not be slowed. He needed to find the others soon. Thoughts began to parade in his head, each pausing for a moment to be weighed, before being cast aside for another, more preposterous, explanation. Could Vallius have planned for their escape and sent a squad a guards to cut them off? No, the knight sorely lacked the wit for that kind of planning, and his pride ran too deep to settle for arresting Jerrit in a dark alley. What was it? Was Cirill itself under attack from the barbarians to the east? Had they breached the walls so quickly and efficiently that the town alarm hadn’t been raised? No, again not possible. Those mongrels couldn’t build a slingshot let alone a siege weapon.
Another shrill cry of pain ripped into Jerrit’s ears. Not far ahead. All he had to do was round the corner and see…
“No…” Jerrit gasped through his pained breaths as his feet skidded on the slick street. He could have kept his balance, but the shock of what he saw made his knees falter and buckle. Oblivious to his rapid decent, Jerrit looked straight ahead in horror as Darren knelt before him, his back turned with a blade’s bloody point protruding from in-between his shoulder blades.
After slamming into a giant puddle, Jerrit lay still for a moment, numb with panic. He had not felt this emotion since the first day of his “second life” The day when Darren happened across his unharmed and unconscious body in the fields to the north. The day when he found out that for the three years prior, he did not exist. The day he found out his little sister Klea, had died in his absence.
Just like that day, Jerrit felt cold. His eyes dared not peer over his boots, they were afraid to verify what he had seen, was really happening. Somehow if he just looked up at the stars that were starting to appear through the dissipating clouds, everything would be all right. His best friend would not be dying. He wouldn’t have to face the unknown horror had just stolen Darren’s last breath.
It was then that Jerrit felt something swarm over his right hand, flowing in-between his fingers that floated within the puddle, it’s lukewarm sensation forming a discomforting glove. Rolling his head to the side, Jerrit could see a red liquid invading the puddle. It split and swirled it’s way across, staying at the surface as it skated up the bandit’s arm. Dread spilled over Jerrit as he looked just beyond the puddle to see Vaka’s pained, lifeless expression staring right back at him, his mouth gaping open and his eyes wide with terror, his blood flowing from the single wound in his chest, making it’s way through the cobblestone down to the water that Jerrit lay in.
His fear now replaced by disgust, the bandit leapt up to his feet, stepping clear of any further contact with the Islander’s fluids. What was this? How could this happen? Looking up Jerrit saw Letty’s body laying peacefully against a wall, his shoulders sagging and his gray beard soaked red. Only feet from Letty, lay Darren, who had now succumbed to his wound, and lay still on the ground, his leg bent awkwardly underneath him. It took a moment for Jerrit to fight though the shock, but when his perception returned to him, he noticed that the blade was gone from Darren’s abdomen. It had been removed, and the killer was still present, waiting in one of the shadows that lined the alley. There were crates everywhere, any of which could serve as ample cover. Jerrit steeled himself, planting his feet firmly on the cobblestone, and drawing his swords.
He could hear breath, a cold wheezing that swept through the narrow passage. It was the breathing of a beast, the pained inhalation of terror.
“I know you are here!” He yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking with rage. “Fight ME! I will butcher you!”
A moment of silence passed as Jerrit’s voice echoed through the pathways of the city. Then laughter.
A figure began to emerge from a shadow directly in front of Jerrit, a human covered in dark blue robes. The bandit could not be certain, but by first sight the figure before him was not a physically imposing threat. In fact his frame seemed tiny, even frail. The body of an old man.
“Have you done this?” Jerrit demanded, his eyes wild with anger.
The blue robed man only laughed a little bit more, his shoulders bouncing up and down as the humor engulfed his body.
“Yes Jerrit Landis, it was I who killed your companions, but do not fret, and do not think to attack me”
It did not matter what the strange man said, all Jerrit needed to hear was an admission of guilt. The rest was lost in the bloodlust of revenge. One sturdy lunging step and the bandit was speeding forward. Cocking his right arm across his body, he readied for a mighty blow. The mystery man however did not make an effort to dodge. He didn’t even move. The lack of defense did not matter to the bandit though. If he were to be allowed a free shot, he would accept without hesitation.
Once he was within range, Jerrit unleashed a slash unlike any he had before. A primal attack that drew upon every ounce of rage that his body held. Everything he had went into sending his golden sword slicing though his target. However as the blade came within inches of the blue robe’s neck, the figure disappeared, sending the blade whizzing through the night air, nearly slipping for the bandit’s grasp.
Jerrit stumbled to keep his balance after the attack. The moment his feet were under him, he wheeled around to see the man standing back at the entrance to the alley.
“I was told that you might put up a fight, but I would expect someone of your skill not to let your rage consume your judgment. Had I wanted, I could have made you just like your friends there.”
A bony hand extended from within the robes and snapped it’s fingers crisply, the sound reverberating through the narrow passage.
“Just like that. An instant is all that it would take, Jerrit Landis, son of the late merchant Phillip Landis, son of loving mother Genia Landis, older brother of the late cleric Klea Landis, and former Capitan of the Knights of Cirill.”
Jerrit was taken back by the knowledge this man possessed. His family was well known in Cirill, his father and mother both well respected in the community, and his sister a beacon of light in the church, so it was not impossible for someone to know of his history, but why this man?
Jerrit chose to stay quiet, trying to let this man reveal more about himself before making a move.
“Before you make another foolish attack, let me say that I mean you no harm, and if you do what I say, then you will see your friends alive and well once again.”
Jerrit was puzzled by this statement, “Alive once again? Are you a necromancer of some sort?”
The blue robed man laughed heartily, the laugh of an old man, crackling and weak. If he had found any more amusement, his lungs may very well have collapsed in exhaustion.
“A necromancer I am not you fool. Necromancy is an unnatural school of magic, it is the tampering of things that have already been set into place. I on the other hand…am a mage whom seeks to keep things the way they should be, and only change what I see as necessary.”
Jerrit’s memory sputtered for a moment, trying to grab hold of a vague recollection, an impression of familiarity, but in the end an unintelligible memory.
The blue robbed mage began to speak, but his voice was quickly choked by a coughing fit. His bony hands rifled though his garments in search of something to subdue the uncontrollable hacking. After a few moments of panicked searching, he finally found what he was looking for; swiftly plucking from his inner pocket a small object, which he rushed to his mouth. Seconds passed before the mage could talk once again, during which time Jerrit simply stared at his newfound adversary with confusion. Was this man really that powerful? He looked to be on his deathbed.
Once he was back under control of his body, the mage gingerly removed the hood from over his head, showing his bald, gray scalp in the slight moonlight that peered through the clouds. The mage’s face made Jerrit’s stomach churn; the cheek bones that hovered over nothing but hollow skin. The blackened eye sockets were tunnels, digging towards two small, cold eyes that regarded Jerrit, and the rest of the world with disgust.
“I am a mage of the Chronos affinity. You likely have not heard of our existence, but notoriety is something we strive to avoid. I have pledged my life, and my body, to Chronos, the God of Time. I have no name, as I am just an extension of Chronos himself, but since you are to be the reason for my being here, I will afford you the privilege of calling me by my birth name, Quinton.”
Every word the Chronos mage spoke seemed like an iron hammer being slammed down on Jerrit’s mind. This was entirely too much from him to digest. He still had not been given a chance to come to terms with his companions’ murders, and now their killer was trying to introduce himself? Jerrit could take no more. He had to settle his friend’s deaths. The taste for revenge was the only thing he knew how to deal with. Just as Quinton began to speak again, there was a roar of noise from further down the street. The clanging of armor and the shouting of orders by husky voices meant that the town guard had gotten their act together. They were on the way with orders to kill from an enraged Vallius. The sounds served to quiet the Chronos mage for a moment. He looked around in slight confusion as to what was going on. As he turned to look out into the street, Jerrit saw his window of opportunity appear. Flipping his golden sword in his hand so that it pointed down, the bandit quickly cocked it back, took a step forward and flung the blade into the air with all of his strength. As planned, the sword’s point sailed true and as it came within inches from it’s target’s back, it stopped. Jerrit’s mouth hung agape as Quinton turned around with a smile on his face, his crooked yellow teeth shining in the moonlight. The mage stepped to the side of the suspended sword and grabbed it by the handle, examining it as if it was his own.
“A very nice sword you knights have. I feel the magic in it…sure it has faded over the years, but its presence still lingers.”
Looking up at Jerrit, the mage shook his head, “I though I told you that you cant hope to fight me. I may look decrepit, but I am one with Chronos.”
The clanging of armor could still be heard on the street, drawing closer by the second. As he listened, it occurred to Jerrit that the mage might not be the worst of his problems. He had to avoid the guards before he could worry about the mysterious old man.
“Sorry to leave you like this, but I need to get going before those guards find us here. If I die there isn’t much hope for whatever you are trying to do.”
With that the bandit jumped onto the latticework of the wall to his left. Sturdy it was not, but it was the only exit route that didn’t require a run past the mage.
“Stop” Said Quinton calmly, dropping the golden sword on the ground and thrusting his hand forward. As Jerrit turned to look at the Chronos mage, he felt his arms and legs freeze, just like his golden sword had. A spell had been cast on him and he was helpless to move his limbs. All that remained free was his ability to breath and move his head. Jerrit cursed as he looked at the mage with anger.
“Why are you doing this? The guards will kill me!”
While Jerrit spoke, a group of three guards appeared in the street, their torches illuminating the entire alley.
“There he is! Get….” In an instant the three soldiers were paralyzed by the same spell, only they were completely still. Their eyes still roared with the intensity of the hunt, but they were stone, holding onto the last conscious thought until they were able to move again. Even the flames on their torches ceased to flicker. It took a few moments, but eventually all of Cirill fell quiet. Quinton had managed to freeze the entire city, as well as what seemed to be the world itself.
Soon the sound of the mage’s cackle was the only sound that reverberated through the streets. Jerrit could not decide whether to be impressed or horrified at the feat. Quinton raised his hands to the sky in amusement and began to laugh wildly, but predictably had his glory cut short by a coughing fit from his over-exerted lungs. A minute passed after eating another morsel from within his robes, before the mage returned to normal. Clearing his throat, Quinton walked towards Jerrit, lifting his hand into the air he muttered a spell. The bandit began to panic, “Damnit no!” he yelled as he winced for the coming spell. He would die with his friends after all.
All at once, and most unexpectedly, Jerrit’s legs and arms sprung back to life. Not prepared for the restoration, the bandit’s limbs relaxed and he fell hard to the cobblestone.
“Oh I’m sorry” said Quinton tauntingly as he watched the bandit hit the ground with a thud, then stagger to his feet., “but it’s better than getting caught by those guards is it not?”
Shaking his head, Jerrit looked over the mage’s shoulder to make sure the guards were still there. As before, their armor still gleamed with the exact same flicker of light.
“Alright,” he panted, looking at the mage. Before he could say anything further though, his attention was caught by a drop of water that floated between them. “No…You didn’t” he said with disbelief, looking up at the sky to find an army of droplets frozen in air.
“Yes I did” said Quinton, basking in the wonder of his feats. The school of Chronos may not have sought out notoriety, but if Quinton was to be any indication, they certainly liked to show off when given the opportunity. “I stopped weather itself. I stopped…everything in the mortal realm. Only the gods themselves are untouched at this moment.”
The idea boggled Jerrit’s mind, but he had to be careful not to show too much wonderment. This mage was still his enemy.
“You have proven your power in spades, but you still have not explained to me why you did this,” Jerrit said, motioning to the bodies strewn across the alley, “And why you want me of all people?”
Quinton nodded his sickly looking head in acknowledgement, “You are right, I failed to explain my purpose here. First, let me say that I did that to them so that you would have no choice but to help me, and though it may seem brutal to you, it was the only way of you taking me seriously. Despite their current appearances, your friends are just fine. They will be well again if you do what I ask.”
Jerrit did not show any type of expression, letting the mage continue with his explanation.
“My purpose here is one of great importance. It is a task that needs to be done in order to correct an errant path in time, and unfortunately you are the only one who is capable of making the correction.”
Jerrit grunted, taking the statement personally, “What good am I to someone like you? From what I’ve seen so far, I could be dead in an instant if you so pleased. Why don’t you just fix the problem? You seem to know what needs to be done better than I do.”
“Ah”, Quinton’s eyebrows rose, “A valid point, not bad for a mortal, but nonetheless ill-informed. You see, the reason we chose you, is because the error rests in the grave of the recently deceased Klea Landis, High Cleric of all Cirill.”
Upon hearing his sister’s name, Jerrit immediately took offense, reaching out to grab hold of Quinton’s robes. The mage did not fight back, but instead looked at his attacker with a chilling glare. He had been told that this mortal would still have a sore spot, so this aggression, while not welcome, was also not entirely unexpected.
Seeing his own foolishness in the mage’s eyes, Jerrit hesitantly released the older man. “What does Klea have to do with anything? She served the church her entire life as a Cleric. She’s just another wasted life.”
“Oh,” said Quinton, “I sense some bitterness still lingers on your lips. Not a man of faith I see. I suppose that makes sense. After all, it would be, how you mortals say, hypocrisy, what with all the people you have slain over your lifetime.”
Jerrit’s eyes flared with rage again, but this time Quinton put his palms out in apology, “I’m sorry. I don’t have much experience with normal humans. I tend to forget how easily you take exception to simple statements of fact.”
There were a few moments of tension filled silence as the bandit waited for Quinton to continue.
“In any case Klea was born with a rare gift, one that she would have come to realize had she not died so soon.” With those words, Jerrit’s attention was secured.
“Unfortunately I cannot tell you what that gift was…Your knowledge may influence things in an adverse way. But let me just say that the world today would be better had she lived to realize what she could do.”
“So?” Jerrit questioned, “What do you want from me? She is dead, and I don’t even remember why.”
“Precisely! She is dead, and nobody knows how it happened, not even I. That is why my skills and your situation are needed in order to correct her death. That is the reason that I have been sent here. To send you back into your past. To the time when you weren’t there, to help her.”
The idea needed a moment to settle into Jerrit’s mind. He was not completely sure what this man had in mind. Send him back? Was that possible? What would that mean? What would he find in a time he didn’t remember? An ocean of questions swelled within the bandit all at once, but there was not a single one that he could put forth. He was, for the first time in his life, speechless.
Seeing the confused expression on Jerrit’s face, the mage nodded with a smile.
“I understand your bewilderment. It is not often that a mortal is able to experience what you just have, and what you are about to. Those that have found themselves in the place you now stand; have always approached it with confusion and trepidation. But I can tell you that those who have been given the opportunity to go back in time, have always been successful.”
The silence of Jerrit’s voice soon turned into a slight giggle, and soon the giggle turned into a roar of hysteria. Quinton placed a weary hand on his own wrinkled forehead in frustration as he observed the spectacle in front of him.
“I may have the time, but I certainly lack the patience for this kind of behavior mortal. Now stop laughing so that I may tell you what you need to know.”
Jerrit’s amusement ceased for only a moment, as he put his hands on his knees and looked up with a smile at the mage while gasping for air.
“You know, it occurred to me that this could all be a dream. You don’t really exist, and I…Well I’m laying in a bed somewhere, with rays of sunlight marching towards my eyes. I will wake up soon and I wont have to ever see your ugly mug ever again!”
As Jerrit rekindled his laughter, the mage closed his eyes in frustration. Had this man not been vital, Quinton would have struck him dead where he stood, and enjoyed every moment of it.
“Alright, have it your way.” the mage muttered under his breath. “I’m done with this imbecile for now.”
Waving his right hand in a circle, Quinton chanted a short spell that saw Jerrit freeze completely moments later. The bandit was now just like the rest of his world; ensnared in Chronos’s grasp. After admiring his work, the mage pulled a piece of parchment from within his robes. It had already been written on from top to bottom, just in case it was needed.
With a smile the mage slid the paper into Jerrit’s palm, then pushed the fingers inward to form a secure grip around the item. Stepping back, Quinton once again brandished his bony hands, thrusting them dramatically into the night air. He would have to put everything he could into this spell. As he begun his chant, beads of sweat immediately began to form on his face, growing and tricking down like rain. His skin began to shift slightly, his wrinkles growing more defined, his cheeks becoming hollowed and his eye sockets growing darker. Such was the burden of a mage. When the last fragment of the spell left his lips, Jerrit vanished before him. No trail of his existence remained, and for that Quinton was glad. The spell was a success, and Jerrit had been sent back three years. The ramifications of the journey would not begin to form in the current time until the mage had called off his worldwide stop spell, but in the past things would have just begun.
Wiping the sweat from his face, Quinton turned to head out of the alley, but as he did, a slight twinkle caught his eye in the direction of where Jerrit once stood. The mage felt his heart stop as he turned to see a small disturbance in the air. A few hurried shuffles of his feet found Quinton standing in front of a miniscule vapor outline. As he studied it, it appeared to be the shape of a small bottle.
“No…” he said, balling his fists up so tightly that all of his frail knuckles popped, and his overgrown, gray fingernails drew blood from his palms.
“The fool had something else with him…something that we didn’t account for.”

[Tiber]

Chapter 3

“In keeping with your wishes, I have sent him back in time.”

“We are glad to hear this Quinton. Chronos smiles upon us from his throne in the heavens.”

“Yes…all goes well, but I must ask, in the vision that Chronos blessed us with, were there any items that he carried back with him?”

“…I do not understand…speak freely Mage.”

“I believe that he may have had a small item that you failed to account for, perhaps a bottle, some sort of potion that he had tucked away.”

“…We did not see this bottle in our vision, but I am certain that Chronos knew of it. It is of little consequence, as it will likely disappear in the fabric of time during his transition.”

“That is possible, but this bottle left a mark on this world when it left. A small vapor silhouette that felt odd to me. In all of my days I have never felt something like it. The bottle was abnormal, unnatural to this world. It was almost as if it did not belong here to begin with.”

“Rest your mind Quinton. Worry not. Chronos will see that all is taken care of. Remember that we are only the tools of his divine plan, not the architects. We have been taught to do as instructed, and the world will become what it must.”

“I…I apologize for my temporary lapse in faith, please do not speak of this to the others.”

“Of course not Quinton. We all wage war with our doubts at one time or another, but in the end you and your faith will emerge stronger for it.”

“I thank you for your trust, but I shall watch the situation even closer. If that bottle becomes a potential problem, then I shall intervene.”

“Do as you see fit to honor the wishes of Chronos.”

The crowd came to a deafening roar all around Jerrit as his head shot from side to side trying to figure out what was going on, his eyes bouncing from unfamiliar face to unfamiliar face in the sea of hundreds that surrounded him, all waving their fists in the air or beating their chests as they shouted ruthless commentaries mixed with obscenities at the top of their lungs. “Where the hell…” he said aloud as he began to panic. That panic turned into a cold sweat as his body began to realize his mind’s alarm. Jerrit’s eyes now recognized the sight before him, but instead of serving as comfort, it only made his situation more confusing. He was in the midst of the raucous arena crowd, the kind that Cirill was famous for. The only problem was that there hadn’t been an arena match in nearly two years, or at least not a legal one. Jerrit knew what this was. He had refused to believe the old mage, but as it turned out, there was no bluff. The full ramifications of his situation did not hit him immediately though, it was all surreal to him until he looked to the right, to see Letty cheering beside him, his gray beard clear of blood, his wrinkled face filled with excitement. Jerrit turned away quickly and fell to his knees, feeling his latest meal fighting to rise from within. It took every bit of concentration he could muster to keep his body’s will suppressed. The sight of his old friend had caught him off guard, the horrific image of Letty’s lifeless body still beat like a drum in his head, but once he recovered from the shock, the sight of the man who stood next to him quickly became a comfort. Letty was alive.
Gaining his legs once again, Jerrit tried to casually look back to his friend. Sure enough the proud knight was standing on his own, yelling louder and clearer than he had in years. Sensing Jerrit’s stare, Letty hesitantly turned his head away from the match he had been absorbed in.
“Yes Captain? Is there something wrong?”
The sudden question startled Jerrit, but his eyes continued their focus. He couldn’t help but study Letty’s face with amazement. He couldn’t remember the old man ever looking so healthy, at least not since he had fallen to the drink.
“Oh…I…uh nothing, nothing at all.”
The old knight glanced at Jerrit with a small degree of puzzlement, but it was not enough to distract him from the main attraction in the pit of the arena.
Looking for the first time at the dirt ring in the center of the stadium, Jerrit couldn’t take his eyes off of the spectacle in front of him. There were two fighters, both familiar to Jerrit. Wielding an oversized mace and buckler was Vaka, his powerful frame a dominating presence in the arena. His dark brown skin glistened with a mixture of sweat and dirt from a day chalked full of battles. The other figure however, took Jerrit’s interest even more. Opposite Vaka stood the unmistakable Marcus Therin, sent to his grave sometime during the years of Jerrit’s disappearance. The Knight Captain held his beloved golden sword out in front of him as a salute to his enemy, as he did before every match. His silver and gold armor shined perfectly, not a dent, scratch, or dirt patch to be found. Jerrit had forgotten how seriously Marcus took his appearance. Vain he was not, but pride, he had enough for five men.
“Darren says that most of the bets are on Marcus. No surprise I guess. It figures that most people would rather put their money on a knight than that southern brute.” Said Letty casually, keeping his eye on the match as a sly grin crossed his face. “You know what that means right? Whoever he is, that Islander looks like he is gonna make us a lot of money today Captain.”
Jerrit ignored his friend, remaining focused on the match. How could Vaka be the underdog? He was as skilled as anyone on the continent, let alone in Cirill. He was a tempest in the arena. In fact it had been his unprecedented winning streak that drove all of the decent fighters away, ultimately resulting in the arena’s demise. It then dawned on Jerrit as he watched his friend circle around the arena defensively. This was Vaka’s first match. He had just been shipped in from the southern isles, captured just so he could take part in this tournament, just so that Marcus could defeat him.
“No Letty, Marcus will win,” Jerrit shook his head with disgust, “This match is fixed.”
The older knight’s head swiveled to the left, where he stared at Jerrit with disbelief. “We all agree that Marcus is scum, but he wouldn’t go that far!”
The Captain only nodded down to the pit, “I read the report from the expedition that found him. He fought his way through a company of men before Vallius finally thought to hold his wife and kids hostage. That was the only way he could get on the ship. Think about it, Marcus wouldn’t step foot into the same ring with Vaka unless there was some way of assuring his own victory.”
Letty’s face turned grim at the theory laid before him. It made sense to the old man, but being a knight of principle, he found it difficult to question his superior.
“You may have a point, but I’ll wait and see before I make my own…Captain, what do you have in your hand?” Said Letty, abruptly interrupting his own sentence.
Looking down, Jerrit was surprised to see that in his hand he clutched a small rolled up piece of parchment. He had been holding it without knowing, his mind otherwise too occupied to pay attention to such a small thing.
“I…I’m not sure” he said, knowing full well that his response would only complicate matters, but it was the only thing answer he could provide. It was the truth. What was this?
The older knight reached for the letter, which Jerrit quickly jerked away, seeing his name scribbled on the outside. It was for his eyes only, no doubt from Quinton.
“Sorry Letty, but I…have to go, I’ll be back in a second.” Said Jerrit as he brushed by his companion and hurried down the row of seats. Letty would have questions later. Jerrit couldn’t blame him, but at the moment he didn’t care. When he reached the end of the row and hit the stairs, he immediately turned and ran upwards. He needed to be somewhere secluded. Members of the crowd yelled out to him as he passed, some shouting his name, hoping to gain his attention, while others heckled him, “Why aren’t you down there Captain Landis!?” they laughed, “Are you afraid of getting thrashed by Marcus?”
Such attention Jerrit was not accustomed to. He had grown used to being nothing more than a shadow, but as he looked down at his silver and gold armor, the armor of a Captain of the Knights, he remembered how he used to be treated. He recalled that he was one of the most prestigious figures in Cirill. He carried one of the two golden swords, and that made him a icon to these people, for better or worse.
Once Jerrit reached the top of the stairs, he looked back down to see Letty following his trail. “Sorry Letty” Jerrit muttered under his breath as he darted to the left, dodging the few members of the crowd that lingered at the top ring of the arena. One or two reached their hands out to him in panic, assuming that something amiss, but the Captain just continued to push past. Jerrit’s eyes lit up as he rounded another corner to see a wooden scaffolding appear before him. The Arena had been under repair since the last strong storm had blown through. It would serve as a perfect escape route.
Without hesitation, Jerrit leapt up to the highest horizontal beam he could reach. It was fairly narrow, but the knight managed to keep his balance long enough to grab onto the next slab of wood and pull himself up. He now found himself level with the roof of the arena that covered the highest ring of seating. There were still holes in the material, a lasting scar of the storm, but it looked stable enough to stand on. One deft leap found Jerrit slamming into the flat surface. The fabric, that he could only guess was some sort of animal hide, stretched and strained under his weight, but after a few waves of instability, the roof held firm. Exhaling, Jerrit turned and sat down gingerly, facing away from the pit of the arena, looking out towards the ocean to the east.
The crowd roared behind him, enthralled in the match, but he didn’t much care. He already knew the outcome. Unrolling the letter carefully, the knight’s attention was immediately drawn to the symbol at the top. An eye with five circles around it, each one more faint than the next as they went away from the centerpiece. A rune? Jerrit had little experience with the symbols of magi, but there was no doubt that this was some sort of mysticism.
Drawing his eyes away from the mark that stared back at him, he began to read the letter.

Jerrit Landis –

You have been given this letter upon your departure to the past as a guide to your journey. I wrote this in the event that you would not cooperate with me willingly, and since this parchment is now in your hands, you can assume that my patience was stretched too thin. No matter though, as sometimes people have to see for themselves before they can truly grasp what is asked of them. I trust that you have now made this transition to the believing, and that you will read carefully my instructions for you.
As you may have noticed initially, all of your clothing has changed, and so has your body. You are as you were on the exact day I sent you back to. Anything on your person that did not exist three years prior has been dissolved by time itself, and replaced by what you did have. This rule also applies to your body. You have taken over for your former self. It is exactly as it was three years ago, younger and stronger, minus any wounds or markings you may have incurred since. If you are wondering what happened to your old self, it has been absorbed by Chronos, and is being held for your return. This letter is the only item that has made the leap with you, blessed with a Rune of Chronos at the top, it is able to transcend the normal barriers of time. It is, in fact, still of this time, your native time. Thus it is able to serve as our way of communication, but unfortunately it is only one way. Since it does not exist in your current time, you cannot write on it.
I will be watching from here for signs of your progress, and I will write to you on this scroll with your instructions. That being said, I must also add that you must be extremely careful in this journey, and I don’t just mean staying alive. It is imperative that you remember every single action you take is a slap in the face of Chronos. Time can be thought of like a river: it follows down a natural path if it is not interfered with, and it will continue to go that way for eternity. However a river can easily be changed. If one log blocks the stream, then the water will start to split off into different directions, often in uncontrollable ways to form new paths. This is an exact translation to your scenario. Once you save Klea from death, that will make a significant difference in the river of time, and the world as you know it will be different when you find yourself back in this time. And occasionally not even something as dramatic as a life is needed to disturb the flow of time. A greeting in a place where you shouldn’t have, or a decision to turn the corner or keep going straight on your way home can have implications just as large. Anything you do that varies from the original plan, has the potential to change everything. I don’t expect you to know what to do and when, but do be careful. At no cost can you let anyone know what you are doing, or give them any reason to suspect you. You are alone in this, that is the way it has to be.

- Quinton

Jerrit grunted as he rolled the paper up once again, tucking it into his chest plate “Didn’t even wish me good luck.”
The crowd stirred behind him, their cheers becoming so loud that their collective voice echoed throughout all of Cirill. Jerrit turned to look, but he already knew. As the knight came to stand at the edge of the roof, he was overcome with a sense of anger. He was the only one that knew what was really going on down in the pit, and if the crowd had only known the same, it would be raining stones on the arrogant knight. Much to Jerrit’s anguish, there in the middle of the ring stood Marcus, his golden sword hoisted into the air in triumph, the crowd pulsing louder and louder with each thrust of his blade into the air. At his feet lay Vaka, panting in agony as the Arena attendants came to help him out of the dirt circle.
Jerrit could only imagine what was going thought Vaka’s mind at that moment. “He just wants to go home” the knight muttered with disgust, his fists clenching tighter as he watched Marcus’s phony smile grow by the second. The man’s ego was out of control. Just as Jerrit was about to heave his helmet into the arena in frustration, he heard a scratching noise in coming from his chest plate. It was the sound of writing. Immediately Jerrit reached into the depths of his armor and fished out the parchment once again. Hurriedly he unrolled it to find a new scribbling of text at the bottom.

You brought something back with you that you weren’t supposed to have. It appears to be a small cylinder in your pocket. Destroy it immediately!

On queue Jerrit’s hand shot towards his right pocket, but there was not one to be found. Panicked by the note’s tone, Jerrit searched up and down his right side, finally discovering a lump under his belt. Lifting the leather band around his waist, a small pouch dropped out. He peeled back it’s mouth, finding a tiny vial inside. The knight recognized this; it was the bottle that they recovered from the brown robbed beggar. During the fray he had forgotten about it entirely. Taking it out of the bag, Jerrit was surprised to see that it was no longer empty; instead it was now filled with a murky colorless liquid. He gripped the bottle tightly as he lifted his arm to destroy it…but couldn’t bring himself to shatter the glass. “At least not yet”, he muttered to himself as he relaxed his arm, bringing the bottle back down to eye level. With great care, the knight caressed the smooth glass surface with his thumb. Soon he found a rough patch where the vial had been carved into ever so slightly. Looking down he moved his grimy digit out of view to expose a familiar symbol that adorned the bottle. It could have been just a decoration, a pure coincidence, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe that yet. There had to be a reason why his family insignia stared back at him, why it had found him.
He had not see this symbol for years, at least not since his father’s burial, where it had been laid over he and his wife’s adjoining graves in the form of a thin woven blanket, a symbol of pride for a family that couldn’t ever hope afford a real funeral marker. That very night, Jerrit and his sister swore never to reproduce the family insignia. It had died with their dad, and so had their family.
The knight’s hands trembled as memories of the past began to escape his labyrinth of a conscious.
“This…this is more than a coincidence. It’s a message from somebody, and I have to figure this out, the world be damned.” A slight smile spread over his face, an embrace of a challenge, a thirst to figure out more. He tipped his chin upwards towards the orange evening sky and took a deep lungful of air. Exhaling, he looked back down towards the arena pit where Marcus and Vaka had already been cleared out, and another battle had begun in their place. “Sorry Quinton, but I wont. This bottle stays in my hand until I figure out what it is.”

[Tiber]

Chapter 4


“And what of his sister? What did our lord show you in regards to her?”

“Chronos simply made it clear that she must live. She holds some ability, an unknown power that will do great things for Cirill and beyond.”

“And do you know what it is?”

“Even if I did, I could not tell you. Just know that this is something our world has not seen for hundreds of years. Thus, Chronos values her life far more than either of ours.”

“I…see. I shall hope that she survives then.”

A bard sang the praises of Marcus Therin from outside the stadium as the crowd passed him by. Normally he wouldn’t have garnered attention from the townsfolk, his foolishly ornate clothing desperately screaming purple and gold to the masses, his abnormally long and pointed beard drawing giggles from children and men alike, but on this glorious day he managed to gain favor rather than ire. The crowd making an evening exodus from the arena was ripe for the picking, ready to hear one of the great song weavers of Cirill was ready to carry word of triumph to other towns so that they may admire one of the esteemed Captains of the Knights. The fans gave to him without reservation, and usually in generous quantities. Some submitted requests for where the bard should travel to first. Brunia was the most popular of suggestions. It was the closest, and most convenient but he despised that place, it was where good stories, and good bards went to die. He wouldn’t be found in such a slime pit as Brunia. Ithis to the west was also a popular suggestion, but it was buried up in the mountains. A trip there from the east meant a treacherous weeklong walk through less than stable mountain trails, and a bout or two with the indigenous and inevitable wild dogs. Yerril was the bard’s absolute favorite place to go, but it was even further west than Ithis, and would require a journey through Nerin’s pass in the southern Ithis Mountains. It was certainly a trip the bard wouldn’t mind making, the scenery was splendid, and the trail was well guarded, with safe houses enough to pass by three in a day, but he needed to get word out right away.
“You there!” he shouted from the small box he perched upon to see above the masses. “Yes you!” he arbitrarily pointed to a woman dressed in all black, the hood of her robe covering her face as she walked through the crowd slowly, the rest of the citizens breaking upon her obstruction like a rock in a river. “Where would M’lady have this noble bard sing the praises of the great and honorable Marcus Therin first?”
The woman stood still for a moment, questioning to whom the bard was talking, but as she saw her surrounding company turn and look at her with expectant stares, she realized that she was indeed the target. With a sigh, the woman brought her slender, pale hands up to her face and pushed her hood back. The crowd surrounding her immediately began to buzz. Strangers looked at her with excitement, their heads turned sideways in conversation, but their eyes remained glued on her. The expressions ranged from astonishment to pure joy, but she knew that none of the looks she garnered represented the people’s true feelings about her as a person. Long ago she had learned that the more influence she garnered, the higher the pedestal she stood on, the more she would come to be loved. But unfortunately it would only be a love born of envy, of greed. None of these people loved her, Klea Landis. They only wanted her prestige, her title, her power.
“The High Cleric Klea has graced us with her presence this day!” shouted the bard with an undertone of annoyance. Of all the chances, he would call upon the High Cleric. Now he was forced to improvise and hand over his spotlight. “No doubt you have come to see your most honorable fiancé triumph in yet another contest of might…” pausing for a moment he looked around at the crowd, their attention was still not his. Of course, how could he have forgotten, “…Might of which no other man or beast can contend!” The crowd threw a crisp cheer into the air before once again settling on Klea. They hung on every breath she took, anticipating her words; they wanted to be the first to find out her reaction to her fiancé’s victory. Every last one wanted to go home and say that they were there when the High Cleric Klea finally pronounced her love for Marcus Therin.
Silence fell as even the bard teetered at the edge of his wooden box waiting to hear the inevitable.
The Cleric did not spend time weighing her words, instead she unleashed them upon the masses like the precise thrust of a sword. “I go to the infirmary to treat the defeated’s wounds, as I am commanded to do by Cirillian tradition.”
There was a collective release of air as most within earshot exhaled in frustration. Many turned and walked in the direction they had been prior, their hearts heavy with disappointment. Again, as always before, they would leave with only news of Captain Therin’s victory.
Klea hated displeasing anyone, especially those who looked up to her, but it really was ridiculous. Looking up at the bard, she shook her head and frowned. No words followed, but the bard understood the message. He had selected the wrong person to make a spectacle of, and with one sentence, she had deflated him.
Shame on him, thought Klea as she placed her hood back over her long blonde hair and continued to trudge her way across the momentum of the crowd. Why had all of Cirill suddenly become so obsessed with her marriage? Only months ago she had simply been the High Cleric, and nothing more. Now there was talk of her becoming…what? The next queen? Ever since Marcus had proposed to her, the life she had known, and become comfortable with, had disappeared. She hadn’t even suspected his adoration until the very moment when the knight knelt down before her. Klea was not even convinced that the man was indeed in love with her. She knew full well that she was likely just the latest frontier in the battle between her brother and Marcus. Could he really do that though? Could the sterling example of a knight be so petty as to steal his rival’s sister away? And for what? Even if he succeeded that would not be the end. Jerrit would only fight right back as he always did. Both men were tenacious, and often childish, but only one was able to hide that from the public.
Feuds such as this had always plagued the Knights of Cirill. It had been commonplace for hundreds of years, harkening back to the original duo of warriors that wielded the golden swords, Omar and Yemir. Sure there had been some Captains that co-existed well, Tibalt and Morgan, Ray and Gerron, but the majority of the time it had been a struggle. The Knights however had never seen the turmoil brought by Jerrit and Marcus. Their hate for one another was on a level that Klea and many others considered dangerous, possibly even murderous. Even with all of her power and influence, she found herself powerless to stop it. The wounds were simply too deep for anyone to heal, even the High Cleric.
Klea reached the door to the infirmary only slightly ruffled from her trek. All too happy to finally be at her destination, she turned the handle of the decrepit wooden door and stepped inside quietly. The arena medical facilities were nowhere near as clean and comfortable as the one where she was used to working, but nonetheless they would make due. There were only three rooms to this small hut, each with bare bones supplies. She guessed that the arena mentality had somehow carried over. A few people stood in the small entryway, citizens waiting for something; likely the family of wounded warriors. Their faces lit up when she peeled back her hood, immediately they started towards her with questions dancing across their lips, but she quickly slid past them and was met by one of the attendants who greeted her with a rehearsed smile, “It is good to see you High Cleric, my name is Reyn and I’m the resident healer here at the arena infirmary. Klea smiled back pleasantly at that younger girl with ivory hair, “Indeed it is a pleasure to meet you as well. So, where are we needed first?”
Reyn turned to look at the rooms, her brows furled and her shoulders shrugged, “I don’t know High Cleric, Cirillian tradition states that you are the one to choose, but I can tell you that each room is full with four wounded.”
Klea blushed, embarrassed by her own ignorance of tradition. She was the High Cleric, she was supposed to be the one upholding such things. “This is my first Arena healing, so please pardon my lack of awareness as to the procedure.” Stepping forward she pointed towards a random door, deciding not to wait for any divine indication “We shall visit that room first.”
A breeze of anticipation filled her lungs as she entered the room to a chorus of moans and groans. No matter how many times she used her talents, she always became nervous. She had been told by her fellow clerics that it was natural, that with greater ability came greater caution. They convinced her that it was a good thing to be careful, that way she wouldn’t become complacent or careless.
“High Cleric, this man need’s your help first” said Reyn as she shuffled over to the wooden worktable just to the right of the door. It served as a bed for a very large man, the likes of which the bench had not been made to hold. The man was covered in a plain brown blanket, and his eyes relaxed as they stared up at the ceiling. He wasn’t in any kind of pain as far as Klea could see.
Gently, the Cleric touched her fingers to the man’s chest. She could feel his heart still beating slightly, but the man did not acknowledge her contact. He remained fixated on the ceiling, his wooden colored eyes staring upwards without so much as a twitch or a blink.
“Warrior, what is your name?” asked Klea in her softest tone, leaning over the large man, hoping to make eye contact.
“He doesn’t have one so far as we know” mentioned Reyn as she stepped forwards and removed the man’s blanket to show a puncture in the man’s lower stomach. There were traces of herbs scattered around the wound, a mixture to stop the bleeding. That was all the attendants were able to do, it was up to Klea to do the actual mending.
“He came from Ithis, and speaks some awful mix of Ithian and tribal mountain language. Nobody knows how he found out about the arena tournament, or how he got here. All we know is that he was taken out in the first round by your fiancé.”
Klea immediately shot a piercing glance at her assistant.
“Oh…I’m sorry High Cleric, I apologize” said the Ivory haired girl as she stepped back, bowing her head deep. “I should not have assumed”
Rolling her eyes, Klea turned back towards her patient. All this talk of Marcus was driving her mad. She only wanted to perform the duties of a Cleric and nothing more. She did not want to become the wife of a Captain, even if it was a loosely practiced tradition in Cirillian history. That was one institution that she did not care to honor. The tomes had been littered with stories of High Clerics who gave up their professions with the goal of bringing about a golden age in Cirill. They did not always marry knights, sometimes it was a wealthy noble, sometimes even a king, but the common thread they all shared was the loss of their powers. It was forbidden for people of the gods to marry in other cities and cultures for that very reason. Lust would fog one’s vision, and without one’s vision, the gods cannot place trust. Cirillian society however, couldn’t care less. The High Cleric’s greatest purpose was to become wed, and create a powerful family that would bring about generations of divinely gifted children.
Klea once again placed her hands on the man, this time forming a circle with her thumbs and forefingers around the wound. She closed her eyes and began to chant under her breath. As always, she slowly brought her voice to a higher level, constantly repeating the same string of words; a plea to the gods for their help. She hoped that through her they would create a miracle. The gods had never failed her before, and she was High Cleric for that reason alone. She was regarded as the most gifted of all the church’s divine children. It was beyond her comprehension as to why though, she lived no more holy of a life than any others, in fact if the church knew of the lesser years of her past, she may have been excommunicated altogether.
As Klea’s voice rose to an audible level, a slight glow formed within the confines of her hands, an untarnished and pure light, that while small was nonetheless blinding.
Yes, she thought within as she saw the miracle taking place, the gods were once again with her, and they would see that she continued her work.
Filled with newborn confidence, she rapidly escalated her voice, no longer pleading, but commanding the gods to give her power. Her lungs filled with authority as she made the beds shake and the windows vibrate with each word. It was inhuman, and though the patients in the room were surprised by the sheer power, they were more overcome with a feeling of security; the gods were present.
The white light in Klea’s palms grew to a point where it filled the space between her hands, completely blinding the cleric and the onlookers with one sudden burst of energy that swept through the room, blowing papers and loose objects into the air.
There was a moment of silence as the room settled. No one spoke, for there was nothing to say that could do justice to such a sight. Even Reyn, who had participated in such healings before, was rendered wordless.
Looking down at the healthy skin in-between her hands, Klea admired her work. A success once again. She still carried favor with those who would judge.
The High Cleric stepped back, next to Reyn, and exhaled gently. Such a miracle always took the energy out of her, but she didn’t mind.
“You are truly blessed High Cleric Klea” smiled the ivory haired girl to her left. “Your talents are unsurpassed by anyone that I’ve ever come to witness, It just seems so easy for you.”
Klea could only smile back politely at the compliment. No one could ever understand just how hard it was for Klea.
At that moment the door to their room swung open and in walked a man adorned silver armor, with a golden sword swaying at his side with every footstep.
Klea gasped with surprise, “Brother?”

[Tiber]

Chapter 5

“What has Chronos shows of his sister? How will she receive him?”

“You ask difficult questions, but they are the right ones.”

“I am pleased that you approve.”

“He and his sister are opposites. Every strength that he possesses is her weakness, his weakness, her strength. It is only natural in the world of mortals that these two personalities do not co-exist easily. They have had many conflicts through their life, clashes of ideals, questions of morals. But underneath the scarred battlefield of their relationship, they each hold a respect, a love born in childhood, before he became a greed-filled knight, and she a pious cleric. Chronos has foreseen that it is this tie that will bring them together. It will allow her to trust him, and in turn give him a reason to protect her.”

Jerrit never knew how he would act if he saw his sister alive again. It was a scenario he had played through his mind more times than he could count. It had ruined night after night of sleep, keeping him thrashing about in discomfort under his sheets. Would he cry? Would he stay composed? Would they revert to the way they had treated each other before?
As the knight looked down at his hand, he saw a tear fall into his palm, and his question was answered. Jerrit was not surprised. The world he knew had been thrown into such chaos, so suddenly, that he had overlooked this single challenge among all the others. He was so far absorbed in what he needed to do that he had never taken the time to consider his own feelings on the situation. Seeing Letty and Vaka alive once again had been difficult enough to acclimate to, but Klea, had died years ago. As Jerrit stared back at his sister, he had a hard time recognizing her. The color of her long blonde hair was more vibrant that he remembered, the rosy discoloration on her cheeks stood out more than ever before. Though his eyes were unsure, his mind understood. It felt real.
“Jerrit!” yelled Klea, her expression moving from surprise to anger, “What are you doing here? I am performing my duties, and I don’t need the likes of you pestering me!”
Her tone rattled the knight deeply. He had found her life to be a surprise; but he found her anger to be a shock. He had forgotten. Somewhere along the line, his mind had jettisoned the bad memories, the hate, the anger, the frustration that they shared. He only remembered his little sister, her long blonde hair, her rosy cheeks and her sky blue eyes. What stood before him was something entirely different, it was the woman that made herself known only to him, he was the focal point of all her anger and frustration, her only escape from the kind façade of a High Cleric. He was nothing but a disappointment to her, a dark stain of blood on a family embroidered in the purest white.
“I…I’m sorry” Jerrit apologized as he bowed his head. Fighting the instinct to retaliate, he stepped back towards the door and sulked into the lobby. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Klea’s face shifted from anger to surprise as she left Reyn and the rest of her patients, bolting into the lobby after her brother. She had been waiting to hear the word “sorry” come from Jerrit’s lips for years. Her mouth opened, but no words escaped as she looked to the ground in search of answers. Jerrit was ashamed that she had come to think so little of him. Had it really been this bad before? Had his sister always carried this burden on her shoulders?
Before any mending words could be spoken, a commotion rose from outside the door. Frantic shouts of warning brought the door to the infirmary swinging open. Without any greeting or formality, Letty, covered in sweat, staggered in to the building, carrying Darren’s weight on his shoulders. Jerrit’s friend had been hurt badly, that much was apparent to the captain, but how?
“What happened to Darren!” Jerrit demanded as the old warrior set their companion down on the wooden floor and began to remove his pieces of bloodied armor.
Letty looked up at the Captian from his knelt position on the floor. His face was a portrait of restrained anger. His eyes were wide, and his nostrils flared in and out with every labored breath. His lips pursed together tightly, quivering at the strain.
The older man stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow, “He and Marcus got into a scrap in the arena barracks.”
Jerrit looked down at Darren, studying his wounds with a helpless gaze. “It doesn’t look like just a scrap to me! What the hell did Marcus do?”
The old knight simply shook his head, “I’m as confused as you are. I heard someone shouting that there was a fight in the barracks, and by the time I got there it was over, and Marcus was gone.”
“Damnit,” Jerrit clenched his fists, “I’m going to pay a visit to Marcus.”
The Captain turned towards the building’s exit, but before he could take a step, he was stopped by Letty’s hand on his shoulder. The older knight’s grip was firm, and with one strong tug he spun Jerrit around. They instantly made eye contact, the Captain trapped by his friend’s intense stare.
“Think this through Jerrit,” said the gray bearded knight, his voice trembled as he tried to restrain his own anger. “This could turn out badly for you, for all of us.”
Looking back at Darren’s unconscious body, Letty shook his head and removed his hand from Jerrit. “Your sister can heal his wounds. Let her bring him back, and we wont be any worse off than we were before. There is no reason to start a larger fight with Marcus. We should wait to see what happens.”
Klea began to laugh as she knelt by Darren, surveying his wounds as she talked, “You should listen to your friend Jerrit, he is smart enough to know that agitating Marcus is a bad idea. He knows all about your profiteering on the side. Marcus knows that you three are the most shameful knights in the history of Cirill, and believe me, he will ruin you if he must.”
Jerrit looked around with panic to make sure nobody had heard his sister’s words. Luckily the room was clear. The only other people in the building were crammed into the treatment rooms. He despised how careless Klea could be, even when she had nothing to loose. He knew that his sister was right though. Darren, Letty, and himself had been taking liberties with the beggars for years, cleaning up the streets while stuffing their own pockets, even before they had been kicked out of the knights. Though it had evolved and escalated once they no longer had to worry about upholding their images as knights, and he had grown accustomed to that freedom. But in this time that he had been sent to, Jerrit had to be careful. There was always a threat of discovery. If the public knew of their escapades in the darkest most desolate alleys, the three of them would no doubt be kicked out of the knights, if not executed for their transgressions against the people of Cirill. And they would have deserved it.
Klea shook her head and laughed again at the men’s silence. She had them under her thumb, and it would have been her sworn duty as High Cleric to expose them, but as much as she hater her brother’s awful thirst for money, she couldn’t ruin him. It would reflect badly on her to be certain. The brother of the High Cleric being exposed as one of the worst criminals in current day Cirill would not play well to the public, but it was more that her job security. She truly could not see him fall, at least not in that way. She still had some measure of hope for him, if only a droplet. If he were to be destroyed, he would have to do it himself.
“I will heal Darren, but it will take some time, and I can’t have either of you present. It’s hard enough to heal one tainted soul without the interference of two others.”
She gently ran her fingertips through Darren’s long hair, focusing on his peacefully relaxed face for a moment before the injured knight began to stir.
Jerrit immediately dropped to his friend’s side, ignoring his sister’s request. Grabbing Darren’s hand, the Captain fought for the knight’s attention, “Darren! You are awake! What happened?”
His friend opened his eyes with a groan of disorientation. Ignoring his friend, Darren turned to his left and saw Klea hovering over him; he smiled with content before he was mind was overtaken by a wave of pain from his wounds. The knight’s body tensed and his jaw locked tightly as his eyes began to roll back, another bout of pain and he would pass out once more. Jerrit knew that Darren’s health would not fail with Klea present, but the sight disturbed him nonetheless. Twice now he had witnessed his friend suffer mortal wounds.
As Darren’s pain began to sink in more and more, his body started to thrash on the ground violently. He grabbed for anything he could for comfort, his grip on Jerrit nearly breaking every bone in the Captain’s hand. Just as Jerrit was about to fight his friend off, Darren released him and swung his hand downwards, striking the Captain’s belt, folding it down. After the swipe, the small leather pouch that had been hiding sprung out, jostled from it’s hiding place. It fell towards the floor, but Jerrit was able to snatch it inches before it made contact. Quickly he attempted to deposit the pouch back in his belt, but Klea and Letty had already seen it. As they held down Darren’s slowly calming convulsions, the two of them glared at Jerrit inquisitively, questions beginning to form on their lips. He had been too obvious in his attempt to hide it. The Captain cursed under his breath as the convulsions finally ended and a calm fell over the room.
“What was that?” asked Klea, her eyes slowly tightening with suspicion. “Is that the spoils of your latest thievery?”
Jerrit’s voice sputtered, he wasn’t sure how to answer the question. It was from a beggar, but not one of this time.
Letty stepped in to answer for him, “No, he didn’t take that from anyone. It was a gift he received from a stranger at the arena.”
The Captain was grateful for the help, but he could tell that under the façade, Letty had his own questions. The old knight had already grown suspicious when Jerrit ran off with the letter from Quinton, and now the Captain was hiding something else?
Seeing an opportunity to reassure Letty and Klea in their own ways, Jerrit removed the pouch and quickly produced a small bottle from within. He handed it to Klea and shook his head. “I couldn’t figure out what it meant, so I brought it here to ask you what you thought.”
The High Cleric studied at the liquid inside the vial for a moment, opening the small cork at the top and taking a smell. Her nostrils did not like their discovery as she recoiled quickly, her eyes opening wide with surprise. After a short coughing fit, she looked at the bottle again, a slight smile across her face, “This here brother, is a potion of persuasion. It will take the strongest emotion of the one who ingests it, and it will make the person feel the exact opposite. It’s a fairly rare brew, made far to the north. There is a type of fish that spawns in the streams up near Hethin, I can’t remember the name off hand, but it is a rare fish that is the base for this. It’s smell is awful, but the fish is a powerful tool in alchemy. You only see this type of potion in that region though since it expires after just a few days. One of the alchemists in Hethin must have discovered a preserving ingredient… ”
Klea’s smile was wiped from her face as her mouth hung open. Her eyes found the real reason her brother had asked for her opinion. He didn’t want her knowledge in alchemy, he wanted to see her reaction to the Landis family crest.
Jerrit studied his sister’s expression carefully, looking for the early signs of anger. Luckily Klea gave off no such look. Instead she simply remained fixed on her own surprise. He thought to say something, anything to pull her out of her trance, but he couldn’t. Not even he knew what they were dealing with, how could he offer any more information than he had?
The High Cleric folded her hand around the bottle and brought it to her lips, where she held it for a few moments, with eyes closed. A few moments of silence passed before Klea opened her eyes once more and outstretched her closed hand to Jerrit. Calmly she opened her grasp and let the tiny vial slip into her brother’s hand.
“I don’t know what that symbol is doing on your bottle, and I don’t know why you brought that here for me to see. I don’t wish to know anything about that. All I can say is that I hope the gods and the souls of our mother and father have mercy on you if that dreadful display is your doing.”
Jerrit tried to comfort her by taking her hand and promising that it was not his work, but as he touched her hand, Klea pulled it away as if it had been bitten. Her eyes regarded him with a reserved hate, the kind of look fitting of a Cleric. She could not show her displeasure physically, but she would make sure that it was known.
“Klea…” Jerrit started, “I didn’t…”
His words fell silent as he saw her expression turn away. He was not going to get through to her. She didn’t trust him nearly enough to believe what he said. The worst had always been expected from him, and this was no different.
“Captain,” Letty stood up and offered his hand to Jerrit, lifting him from his seat on the ground, “We should leave the High Cleric to her duties. We are only hurting Darren with our presence.”
Pursing his lips in frustration, Jerrit nodded and headed towards the door. After a few steps, he stole one glance back at Klea, who remained planted in the floor by Darren.
She had come to despise him. He hadn’t managed to realize it, even after her death. She held loyalty to him, as a sister to her older brother, but there was no love. Only in seeing his situation once again could Jerrit see that. Opening the door, the two knights stepped into the open air of the Arena Plaza. Letty stopped just outside of the infirmary, bowing his head he spoke, “You must forget about her, friend. For the time being we have more important things to which we must attend.”
The old knight placed his hand on Jerrit’s plate-mail shoulder, “Your instinct was right earlier, we must confront Marcus.” He pointed to the building behind them, “We cannot let him do what he did to Darren anymore. We cannot let him blackmail us for the rest of our careers. We have to stand up to him.”
Jerrit was able to muster a slight smile despite his emotional agony. As much as he hated to leave things as they were with his sister, there were far more important things for him to see though.

[Tiber]

Chapter 6

“I worry”

“Of what?”

“Some time has passed, and yet we see no change in our current time.”

“Be patient Quinton. Though we cannot see his journey, we know that he walks the correct path.”

“I had anticipated at least a small change. The Chronos stream is too fragile an object to undertake something like this without some sign of alteration.”

“He walks through time with no hesitation because he is as blind as we. He has no memory of those days, so he does not know what will happen, where he should be and how he should act. He plays his role as he goes, following no script, only his natural instincts. This lack of knowledge makes him ideal for such a task.”

“I see. If we were to send someone who remembered those days, they would act differently than normal, throwing the Chronos stream further into chaos.”

“Precisely. He knows nothing other than his main objective, and though his path is precarious, he is the only one that can take the correct steps, and follow the set path.”

Dust had settled when Jerrit and Letty reached the guard barracks in the south of town. Their shadows reached beyond their feet for what seemed like miles on the empty streets. Almost the entirety of the townsfolk had retreated to their homes for the night, and as usual the only ones that lingered on were drunks that couldn’t go home, or the beggars who didn’t have a home. Both of which took care to make their appearances sparse before the two knights.
“Damn fools,” muttered Letty under his breath as the second drunk along their path stumbled from an alleyway “What a disgrace,” the older knight continued as the target of his ire looked up to realize his situation. Quickly the drunk turned and scampered back around the corner, his tattered shoes shuffling along the cobblestone as he struggled to keep his balance.
“At least you aren’t completely oblivious! I challenge you to come back here! It’s scum like you that make everyone else’s life hell!” Yelled Letty as they passed by the alley. On a normal day the senior knight would have hunted the man, arresting him and perhaps pocketing his belongings, but not on this afternoon. There was too many problems at their door to worry about seizing the common lowlives.
Jerrit smiled within, finding a very dark humor in his companion’s hatred for the drink. He was tempted to say something to Letty, but as he thought of his mission, he decided better of it. He did not know the script entirely, but the things that he knew of had so far come to fruition. He could only guess that so far he had not strayed too drastically from what this time was meant to be.
“Halt!” A shout came from ahead of the two men, where a lone sentinel stood in front of the entrance to the town guard’s barracks, his had on his sword, ready to be drawn at the slightest aggressive move.
Jerrit and Letty exchanged confused glances as they proceeded forward. The older knight raised his hands in a gesture of peace, “Stay your blade soldier! You order Jerrit Landis, one of the Captains of the Cirillian Knights, and I, the Knight of Seniority Lethias Patterson!” the guard failed to relax his stance as the men advanced towards the large building that all of the guards and knights in Cirill used as a base of operations. “What is the meaning of this soldier!” shouted Letty, his voice becoming strained with anger.
The soldier drew his sword as the knight’s shadow’s reached his feet. Before anymore words could be spoken, the door to the barracks opened, and out sauntered a man in silver and gold armor, his air of superiority identifying him even before his face or voice could be determined.
“Sir Vallius, they wont stop!” sputtered the soldier. Jerrit was now close enough to see a nervous sweat dripping down the soldier’s face as he looked towards his superior for instruction.
The knight simply smiled and patted the soldier’s dark steel plate mail. “Thank you Wendell, I will take this from here, you may take your leave for the day.”
The soldier’s sigh of relief was audible, but he was too relieved to be embarrassed as he immediately ducked back inside the barracks.
Once the soldier was gone, Vallius turned towards Jerrit and Letty, shining a smile so insincere that the two other knights didn’t bother to return. After bowing courteously, the youngest knight put himself upright and began to speak, “I am very sorry the difficulty, we meant nothing by it.”
Letty grunted loudly as he turned his head away, ignoring the boy entirely.
As Vallius saw this, his speech heisted for a moment, but soon picked up where it left off, “As you no doubt heard, the Knight Darren Eubanks assaulted Captain Therin earlier today after the Captain’s victory in the Arena. Needless to say we are all surprised by this, and hope that Knight Eubanks is able to recover from his wounds, but we must at the same time take care to make sure that such an incident does not occur twice. It is in the interest of our great city…Of course if you, Captain Landis also feel endangered, we can spare some men to escort you safely.”
Jerrit scoffed at the gesture, continuing his walk to the door. “Where is Marcus? His office?”
Seeing the Captain begin to move, Vallius stepped in front of the door, spreading his arms to block it off entirely. “Captain Therin said that you would be coming, and he is indeed waiting for you in his office, but to reassure myself and everyone else guarding the Captain, I must ask that you hand over your weapons before proceeding inside.”
Jerrit removed his steel sword from his left hip, shoving it into the chest of Marcus’s apprentice. “You mean to say that it would assure your master if I got rid of my weapons…You can have that old metal blade, but the only way you are ever going to touch a Captain’s sword is if you are polishing Marcus’s.”
With that Jerrit pushed Vallius to the side and opened the door with Letty close behind. Vallius started to put forth the same demand of disarming to the Senior Knight, but a sharp stare kept him quiet.
Inside, the barracks swarmed with the standard metal armor of the town guard. They outnumbered the knights by far, but they were the run of the mill soldiers. They either had no intention of making career out of serving Cirill, or they were simply not skilled enough to become a Knight.
Jerrit expected the guards to immediately stop him in a coordinated effort, but he was surprised to see that they just went about their business as usual, walking up and down the main hallway carrying papers, food, and weapons to wherever they needed to be.
“At least Marcus didn’t see fit have everyone guard him” said Letty with a smile.
“No,” Jerrit looked at all of the soldiers. Their glances towards him were ones of respect, not suspicion. “I doubt Marcus even knew about our his pup’s attempt to stop us.”
“Poor Vallius, the leach will do anything to take care of his guardian, no matter how pathetic.” remarked Letty as he proceeded down the hallway, “Lets go find Marcus and get this over with.”
The two knights made their way to the end of the hall, where a winding staircase stood as the only way up to the second story. While the first floor was perpetually hectic, upstairs it was a different story. There the knights and officers of the guard had their offices, where they would go to escape the common soldiers. The second floor was finely carpeted with a large sea blue rug that stretched the length of the one large thoroughfare. The hallway accommodated more than twenty offices, most of which were overflowing with the clutter of paperwork, and the stench of rotting food. At the end of the hallway stood two doors that only the soldiers with golden swords were allowed to enter; the Captain’s offices. Jerrit himself had only seen his office a handful of times, and could only imagine the paperwork that had been built up over the years. Not even in his native time had the Captain ever bothered to clean, so why would he even step foot in there now?
Marcus’s office sat to the left of Jerrit’s a shimmering contrast to Jerrit’s nearly abandoned workspace. It came as a surprise to none, especially Jerrit, that Marcus’s office was immaculate. Not a paper went un-filed, not a single drop of ink left un-cleaned.
Lifting one fist, Letty tapped on Marcus’s door three times, then waited. The men could hear armor rattling around inside, the hacking of a throat being cleared. The door opened, and there in silver and gold armor stood Vaka, looking back at the two knights expectantly.
Jerrit’s words lodged in his throat as he looked into the islander’s eyes with confusion. It was Letty who spoke instead, free of the confusion that plagued Jerrit, “Hello, we were told that Marcus would be waiting.”
Vaka did not say a word, instead he simply nodded and pushed the door open wider. Stepping back from the entrance, the islander motioned the men inside.
Jerrit followed the direction, but couldn’t help studying Vaka as he brushed by. What was his friend doing in Marcus’s office?
“Hello Jerrit, Letty.” A deep voice erupted through the room, snapping Jerrit’s attention front and center.
Standing tall behind his desk, arms folded in front of him and armor shining the light from the window behind him that looked out over Cirill, Marcus smiled as he greeted the men. Other than the Arena battle he witnessed briefly, Jerrit had not seen his rival Captain since before he lost his memory. As he reacquainted himself with the man’s strong jaw line, his bushy black eyebrows and his cleanly shaved face, It struck Jerrit as odd; the man who stood before him was going to die soon. Like most things that had come to pass during his memory loss, all of his knowledge originated from unreliable hearsay, but Marcus’s death, was one of the most notorious events in recent years. All bards in the land had flocked to Cirill, seeking the story of how on one fateful evening, the last Captain of the Knights was besieged while fighting a company of bandits led by the wicked former knight Kavar. The bards sang of how Marcus slaughtered ten men, Kavar being the last of them, before he was finally brought to the ground, and his golden sword stolen away. Here before Jerrit, stood the living legend, soon to meet his glorious death. Jerrit could only imagine what Marcus would say if he knew of the manor of his demise. No doubt he would glow with pride. To become a legend was his life’s purpose, to outshine Jerrit was his greatest wish. It was not often that a man could have his death be ideal, but Marcus had managed to accomplish it. The pleasure of knowing was something that Jerrit would never give his rival, even if he were able to.
“First,” the towering man gestured to Vaka, who remained stationed at the open door, “This is Vaka, he hails from the southern isles, and as you may have seen I dueled him in the final match at the arena earlier today. Thankfully he did not suffer any serious injuries during the fight. All he needed was some rest, and he was able to stand on his feet once again.”
The knight looked to Vaka with a smirk, “I was so impressed with his fighting ability, that once he was fully recovered, I sent word for him to come here, and asked him if he wished to become a knight.”
At this information, Letty stepped towards Marcus’s desk, knocking the visitor’s chair against the wall as he stopped within arm’s reach of the Captain. Squeezing his eyes in anger, the old knight slammed his fist on the spotless desk, “How dare you use the sanctity of our title to cover up a scam!”
All three of the other men in the room looked at Letty with alarm as he continued, “You took that man’s family hostage so that he would come over here! And for what? So that you could fix the arena fights in your favor?”
Letty held up his hand and yelled even louder as Marcus opened his mouth to defend himself. It was one of the few Jerrit had ever seen the man look flustered.
“Don’t think that this is just some lucky guess you ungrateful excuse for a knight, we know what you did, and we know that you didn’t make that man a knight because he is more skilled than you! You would never admit that! Instead you made him a knight as a token of gratitude, a way to soothe your guilty conscience, and a gesture of kindness to display for the people of Cirill who don’t know you half as well as they should!”
Letty was forced to stop as Jerrit grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him back, throwing him towards the door. The old knight understood that he had gone too far. His anger had undermined his usually composed demeanor, but he regretting nothing.
“In all my years I’ve never seen such a disgrace as you” muttered Letty as he readjusted his plate mail and pushed his thinning hair from his forehead. Jerrit wheeled around and shot a fierce glance at his friend. The old knight couldn’t afford to say anymore, in fact he had said too much already. This was not how things were supposed to be happening. Quinton had been justified in his warning; if Jerrit told too many people things that they weren’t supposed to know, then the flow of time could be affected. The worst-case scenario was happening, and Jerrit was powerless to stop it.
Marcus’s face turned to stone as his eyes hovered between Letty and Jerrit. When it was clear that neither had more to say, the man raised his hand and pointed one slender finger towards the door.
“Lethias, you are dismissed. Vaka, you may take your leave as well.”
Jerrit sighed with relief as the two men exited the room without another word, leaving only himself and Marcus. Now the situation was his to control. He was armed with knowledge and a purpose, though at the same time he had to be careful. As tempting as it was to use his new leverage, he could not divert the river of time any further. Making Marcus squirm would be a delight without equal, but it was not worth the risk. If left alone, the knight would be taken care of, just as he had been before. Pressing him on his Arena antics would only throw things further off track.
Jerrit picked up the chair that Letty had thrashed against the wall in his rage, placing it’s sturdy wooden legs firmly back on the floor. The seat was not comfortable, but it wasn’t meant to be. Marcus never wanted his guests to feel at ease. Jerrit sat anyways, politely smiling as the door shut behind them.
“I apologize for Letty’s remarks,” he said, shaking his head in confusion, “That is the first I’ve heard of those charges, and I don’t have any idea where he picked up that thought.” Jerrit shrugged his shoulders, making eye contact with Marcus, who studied his every gesture and expression from his perch over the desk.
“I see…” muttered Marcus as he too sat down, but instead of a plain wooden chair, he fell into an opulent red throne that had been imported from the far west.
“I hope that you would see fit to talk to him, and let it be known that he is bordering on insubordination, possibly treason with his accusations.”
Bastard. Jerrit thought to himself as his façade nodded in approval.
“I understand completely, I will let him know our disappointment in his actions.”
The conversation had only begun, and Jerrit’s fingers already twitched with rage, a yearning to simply snatch his golden sword from his hip, take one step towards the desk and cut down the lying pig while he still had the content smile of a thief who realized that he had barely escaped capture.
He had to shift the conversation, and not just for his temper’s sake, “Marcus, I’m sure you know why I have come here, I…”
His rival stood up, putting his finger to his lips in a signal of silence. Jerrit’s sentence trailed off and dissipated into the air of the room. He looked at Marcus, lifting his eyebrows in surprise. Did Marcus want to plead his case first?
The lofty figure behind the desk turned away and walked towards his window that held the landscape of Cirill and beyond in his man-sized frame. He cast a thoughtful glance, beyond the city walls, and beyond the visible landscape’s red horizon that tinted his face and the room the same color. The Knight smiled slightly, seemingly oblivious to his guest as he contemplated something within. He then bowed his head and wrapped his lips tightly, drawing them back to unleash a few well-rehearsed words.
“Jerrit, I apologize for the result of my fight with Darren earlier. I seem to have said something that angered him to a point of rage.”
The seated knight teetered on the front two legs of his seat as he leaned forward, waiting to hear an explanation.
“I know what made him explode like he did, and I should have known better than to say it at that time. That was my mistake, but saying it now to you, I do not fear the same reaction, as I know you will understand.” Marcus remained a statue in front of the window, his face turned down towards the carpet. “I have decided officially ask for your sisters hand in marriage, for a better life for both her and I, as well as for a better Cirill.”
Jerrit was glad to see that Marcus did not turn around, because if he had, he would have seen the knight’s jaw hanging open, his eyes scrunched in confusion, and his face red with anger. He didn’t remember this. This was not an event of his native time. This had to have been different.
Marcus once again looked up and surveyed the city as it sprawled before him; it’s streets barren near the end of dusk. “As you know, there is a history in our great city, of Knight Captains and High Clerics coming together and forging great things with their love. I intend to ask Klea to add another chapter to that wonderful tome of our people, and since she has no living parents, I ask you, as her older brother, may I have your permission?”
A torrent of surprise turned into the numb of shock, as Jerrit was not sure what to be more taken back by; the fact that his rival had an attraction, a love for his sister that Jerrit had never even known about, or that Marcus was sincerely asking for approval.
The younger of the two knights couldn’t help but admire how genuine Marcus had become about this one issue. It was something that had never been seen before by the often times pompous and arrogant knight. No matter how impressed he was though, Jerrit could not allow this to happen. Not only was it a horrible scenario for all involved, Marcus aside, but it wasn’t even supposed to happen in the first place.
“I…I’m sorry Marcus, but even though this is the first I’ve heard of this relationship, you should know my response.”
Marcus only nodded in acceptance as he turned from the window and looked at Jerrit from a distance. “Common sense told me that you would reject my offer, so you do not surprise me as I have done to you, but nonetheless I felt that I needed to state my intentions.”
The senior Captain walked around his desk and stood at Jerrit’s side, his hip at his rival’s eye level, his body turned towards the door. Placing a hand on Jerrit’s shoulder, Marcus spoke softly, a smile dancing along his face as he talked, “If you are surprised to hear of my plans for your sister, then perhaps you should talk to your friend Darren once he recovers from his injuries.”
The Captain chuckled as he lifted his hand from Jerrit’s shoulder and began towards the door.
“Your sister will be mine Jerrit, no matter what your wishes may be.”
With those words, the man flung open the door and left the room.
When the door finally swung shut, Jerrit hurriedly reached into his chest plate. This was not right. Things were different that he had been told. Everything, from Vaka becoming a knight under Marcus, to Darren being wounded, and Marcus pursuing Klea. Nothing was correct.
Finding the small scroll, Jerrit pinched it in between his finger and thumb and drew it out into the open air. His mind raced as he unrolled it, hoping to find some sort of news from his native time.
A fresh block of writing appeared underneath the previous entries, where there had been nothing but blank space before.

It has been some time now, and still I see no signs of progress in this time. Klea’s death is no longer a distant problem. It will happen soon. However my peers and I sense no change in the Chronos stream. Any steps you have taken thus far have not advanced us towards our goal. I do now know what changes need to be made in order to save your sister, but keep looking. Have faith in Chronos and a clue will reveal itself. All will become clear and you may cut towards your goal with one well placed slash. But until then, be careful.
Quinton

[Tiber]

Chapter 7

“Much time has passed, and his sister’s time of death draws near. I have informed him of that, but if he is unable to save her soon, should we intervene once more, to give him more information of her death?”

“But there is no more information to be given.”

“What do you mean? If we gave him a hint as to he manner of her death, at least point him in the right direction, then that would ensure our success.”

“I too wonder why so much time has passed, but I tell you that the action you would have us take is impossible. We do not even know the manner in which she passed, only the time.”

“How is that possible? Chronos showed you everything!”

“It is difficult for one who has not gazed into the stream to comprehend it’s workings. We are only shown things that need to be seen, keys to executing Chronos’s wishes, and nothing more, for too much knowledge can corrupt humans, even those who have sworn their eternal souls to our lord as we have.”

“If you do not know the manner of her death, then what else has not been revealed? How blind are you to this task?”

“We do as we are told, as should you mage! We are thankful for what we are given, and do not ask for any more!”

“I…I see. My apologies.”


Careful was all that Jerrit had been in the days after meeting with Marcus. He spent most of his hours plotting in the darkness of his seldom used home near the eastern gate, lying on his bed while staring at the faintly discernable curves and dips in the ceiling. He lost track of time as he weighed options in his head, all the possibilities and their likely outcomes forming together in a tangled web that was impossible to sort out. He had been enduring, biding his time in the wait for his clue to simply walk through the door, but with every sunrise and sunset that passed, his hopes were grinded down just a little more. He would leave on occasion, to walk to the nearby market and gather some food for the day, then perhaps head towards the knight barracks to make an appearance of normality. While there, he would sit and visit Letty, who during their brief meetings would waste no time dispensing the latest hearsay on the now public courtship of Marcus and Klea. Ever since Marcus had made his proposal official, the whole city had been in a state of celebration. It was what the people truly wanted; the union of the city’s greatest warrior, and it’s most holy cleric, a great tradition that would elude generations of citizens before happening again. “The Duquan” it had been christened, the name of the knight with whom the custom held it’s origin.
Only a few days after Marcus had sparked talk of the Duquan, under public pressure that Jerrit could only imagine, did Klea give into the demands, and accept Marcus’s offer. The day when Letty gave this news to Jerrit was the longest one of his self-imposed isolation. He knew that Marcus was not what Klea wanted, but at the same time he understood why she did it. He sympathized with her situation, and the way her mind worked. It was a decision born out of her love for the people of Cirill; it had always been for the good of the people. Though he understood her reasoning, it was that selflessness that drove Jerrit mad, consuming his thoughts, absorbing his rage. Why couldn’t his sister put her needs first, just once? He knew though, that such a wish would never come to fruition. He knew his sister. She would wear a thin smile, and see it all though without letting on a hint of displeasure.
Had Klea’s submission to the Duquan been the only thing to worry about, then Jerrit would have been just fine, but it wasn’t. His mind was also seized by the news of Darren’s recovery. Klea had healed the knight’s physical wounds without complication, but his mental scars refused to get better. Jerrit had not seen his friend since the afternoon when Darren lay on the floor in the arena infirmary, so he could not know how badly the knight’s mind had deteriorated. Letty however, held no doubts as to Darren’s instability, going so far as to have a guard watching the injured knight at all times, in the increasingly expected event that he would claim his own life.
“What has driven him so mad?” Jerrit would ask with concern, only to have Letty turn his eyes down towards his lap and shake his head.
“I don’t know.”
That very scene replayed itself almost every day, but no matter how many times the question was put forth, the answer was always a shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the head.
Time itself was falling apart, Jerrit could feel it ripping in the palm of his hand, and if he did not take charge of it, force it to hold fast, it would fall into an abyss of chaos, the outcome of which was as unpredictable as it was frightening.
“This will be the last knight of isolation”, Jerrit told himself in the midst of one particularly dreary night, somewhere between his sixth and eighth sunrise. He was done waiting for a clue to surface, and further word from Quinton was not to be found. He needed to charge out into the world, and command it to shape the way he wanted it to. Tomorrow would bring change, his brand of change.
The night’s rain sprinkled the roof of Jerrit’s modest home while he lay asleep in bed, his dreams possessed by his mission, his body resting in preparation.
A gentle ring of metal tapping metal bounded towards his ears and stirred him from his slumber. He groaned slightly as his lethargic mind tried to regain it’s awareness of the surroundings. Opening his eyes, Jerrit saw the room was dark, night still ruled the sky, and moonlight had been blocked out by the clouds. Another clang of metal, this one softer than the last brought his worry to reality; there was someone else in the room. Jerrit continued to lay still, choosing to let the intruder go on about his business. The knight would figure out who it was before taking action.
Another sound, but this time the rough scraping of wood on wood as a drawer was pushed slowly shut. The person was looking through the dresser to Jerrit’s right. He was within arms reach, but what was he doing? If he had been sent to kill, the intruder would have done so already. But if that wasn’t his goal, then that would make him nothing but a petty thief. A barely audible mumble immerged from the intruder’s direction, and he made no other noises. He had found what he was looking for. The man turned and walked away from Jerrit on the balls of his feet, taking great care not to shuffle on the floor or make any unnecessary noises. Jerrit could tell though that the man had armor on as it rattled and scraped with every movement. An odd choice of attire for a burglar.
Rising from his bed, Jerrit reached to the top of the dresser where the other man had been. Sliding his hand across the rough wood, the knight found his golden sword. Taking care not to make a noise, Jerrit drew the blade from the sheathe and walked towards the door, his bare feet and wool clothing allowing him to move far quicker and quieter than the intruder. Just outside of the room, near the entrance to the house, Jerrit made his attack on the man, lunging forward to kick the back of the man’s left knee; one of the few exposed spots in Cirillian armor. As intended, the intruder collapsed to his knees with a yell of alarm. Quickly the man spun around and reached for his sword, but the tip of Jerrit’s blade had already found the bottom of his chin, and there it rested bristling against the stubble on the man’s neck, ready to be plunged further at the slightest false move.
The intruder’s breath was heavy as he brought his hands up next to his head, palms open in a sign of submission.
“I’m sorry Jerrit!” said the man in a panicked voice, his breath growing heavier by the second.
The knight recognized the voice as he lowered his sword to his side.
“Darren, what are you doing here!?” Anger began to boil over into the Knight’s voice as he stepped back, placing his sword on a desk that he stood near.
Darren bowed his head, placing his hands on the floor in front of him. “I shouldn’t have come here…strike me down if you so please.”
Looking at his friend kneel before him, it became clear that Letty’s stories were true; Darren was not well. The Captain grunted with pity as he knelt down and placed a hand on Darren’s shoulder, lifting the damaged knight to an upright position. Darren’s eyes were reddened as if he had been crying for days, his long hair lay tangled, pasted in large clumps to his face after days without cleaning. This man was a mess.
“Look,” Jerrit spoke, relaxing his anger to make room for sympathy, “you are not well my friend. Please, stay here for the night, you may take my bed and I will sleep on the floor. You will sleep well, and in the morning we will set everything right.” The Captain smiled meekly, trying to cheer up his friend, but Darren’s expression did not lighten. Instead his eyes continue to stare onward in a look that Jerrit could not place, his dry, peeled lips did not part to make a smile.
“I must leave here.” Darren stood from the ground, his body moving with purpose as it followed his mouth’s command. “I should not have come here, but I must help Klea, there are things that must be done, and I cannot rest…”
His words were cut off as Jerrit gripped his friend’s silver plate mail.
“What was that about Klea?!”
Darren initially shrugged off his Captain and stepped towards the door, but was halted for good when Jerrit seized him once again and flung him towards the wall, pinning him in place.
“Damnit Darren! Why does my sister need help?”
The shouting seemed to have shocked the pinned knight’s senses, as for the first time that night he regarded Jerrit in a familiar look, one that showed he recognized his surroundings. He was aware of who he was talking to, and what he was doing.
Tears began to fall from the knight’s eyes as his back slid down the wall until he fell to his seat on the floor.
“Klea…” he struggled to talk over his tears, “She can’t….can’t….the Doquan”
A feeling of confusion seized Jerrit as he looked at the sobbing man in front of him. What did it matter to Darren? Before the Captain could ask, his question was answered by Darren’s voice, rising from the sobs to release something that had been haunting him for years, “I love Klea! I always have, I wont let Marcus have her!”
Surprise should have set in, but it didn’t. This made sense, and Jerrit couldn’t figure out why.
Darren winced once his words were done, still sobbing as he turned his head in fear of Jerrit’s rage. He was expecting a torrent, but Jerrit was nothing but a clam sea. Sympathy was all that the Captain gave as he brought Darren’s head from the wall to rest on his shoulder. This was all so strange, so inane. Had Darren always harbored these feelings? Or was this just another ripple that Jerrit had created, another mess that he would have to repair. No, this was natural. Such feelings couldn’t be created over the course of a week. This had to have been real, something that Darren had been hiding for years, but for what? All for the fear of Jerrit’s wrath? Certainly it would have been an awkward arrangement, but Jerrit could think of far worse people to steal his sister away, Marcus being at the top of the list.
Jerrit stroked his friend’s thick, matted hair as the sobs were calmed. “It’s alright Darren, you need not fear me. You couldn’t possibly understand, but I have Klea’s interests at heart as well, and I too don’t want to see her marry Marcus.”
The tearful knight spoke with difficulty, his mouth covered by Jerrit’s shirt, his sobs still interrupting his speech, “People say that her healing…it still lasts…so she had not given into to the Duquan yet.”
It took a moment, but soon Jerrit gripped Darren’s head and lifted it. Looking the knight in the eyes, the Captain smiled as he patted his friend’s cheek in appreciation.
“Ha! That is it! You just told me what I needed!”
Confusion now played across Darren’s face as Jerrit leapt from the ground and walked back towards the desk that held his golden sword. Without knowing, Darren had provided the key to solving the riddle of Klea’s death. How could he have forgotten! Throughout Cirillian history, whenever a cleric devoted herself to a man, her powers would inevitably leave her. It was a gradual process that grew as the woman’s devotion to the church subsided. Without the divine powers of a High Cleric, she was as vulnerable as any other mortal. She was killed because she did not have her abilities.
The days of waiting had been well worth the agony. He now knew what needed to be changed, but how would it be done?
Jerrit turned back from the desk, his mind racing and questions on the tip of his tongue, but when he looked, all that he saw was an empty wall. The door to the house still remained open, the faint lanterns of the street giving only a small shimmer of light into the passageway.
“Damnit” Jerrit spat as he hurried back to his room, stumbling over chairs and bumping into walls on his way. He had to find Darren; the knight was too unstable to be left alone.
Deciding not to bother with the silver and gold armor, Jerrit instead opened the top drawer of his cabinet to search for his belt and Quinton’s letter. He found both objects easily enough in the dark, but he felt something else. His fingers wandered to the item as he tried to discern it by touch. It was his leather pouch, but it was empty; the potion was gone
Darren had left, and he had taken time itself with him.

[Tiber]

Chapter 8

“I still see no more change, but I feel that something has gone wrong. Do not deny that you feel the same thing.”

“We, we have felt this as well, though we do not know the meaning of it.”

“Have you consulted the Chronos stream? Have you asked what has happened to him?”

“Yes, we have sought answers, which we received.”

“And?”

“Must I remind you that you are a servant of Chronos? Sworn to uphold his wishes and do his bidding?”

“No, you need not, I remember my oath well, but I question what you observed. As your hand in the mortal world, I ask that you inform me on what is happening so that I may correct it…Tell me how his journey has strayed from the determined path.”

“It has not…yet. There has been an occurrence, an anomaly that had not been accounted for, that turns his footsteps from the trail.”

“Tell me…it was the bottle was it not?”

“We do not speculate, and you do not question. Let us watch further, to be sure if Chronos still holds him firmly in his grasp.”

An hour had passed before Jerrit gave up on the chase. The sun was already peeking over the plains to the east, and the rain clouds had begun their retreat south, towards open waters. Jerrit was exhausted and baffled. He had run from one end of Cirill to the other, and felt only further away from finding Darren. The Captain had even ordered every guard he crossed paths with to aid in the search, but it was to no avail. Most of them resented the idea of a wild, pointless search through Cirill, instead electing to simply stay at their post once Jerrit had left their company. No matter though, it was only an act of desperation, a plea for help from those who couldn’t. Their options were limited even if they did find Darren. No guard was going to arrest a knight all by themselves, let alone one of his stature.
As Jerrit stood alone in front of the arena, he realized that all possibilities had been exhausted. His mind had hit a wall, and could not move. Darren’s home was empty, and the Church had not seen Klea all night. Neither had been seen around the barracks, and none of the gatemen had let anyone pass during the nightly lockdown of the city.
Panic had already run it’s course and adrenaline had stopped fueling his body long ago.
A bard entered the plaza outside of the arena, his purple and yellow suit catching Jerrit’s eye immediately. The man made his way impervious to any observers, with a hop in his step, scurrying across the arena grounds as fast as his ridiculous suit would allow him.
“Halt!” Jerrit shouted though his gasping breaths, his fingers digging into the kneecaps that his hands rested on as he bent down.
The bard hesitated for a moment, looking to consider his options before stopping in his tracks and turning towards Jerrit.
“What do you want brute?” the bard said, his head poking forward and his hands held out wide.
Jerrit gathered one last breath before standing upright again and stumbling to the stranger. “I’m sorry to bother you, but have you seen the Knight Darren Eubanks anywhere? He should be wearing Cirillian armor…”
He paused for a moment as the Bard shook his head in frustration, “I don’t know who this Darren Eubanks is, so I cant help you. Now if you’ll excuse me, this soon to be famous bard needs to be on his way to the Buron Market…there are rumblings of big things happening there.”
Jerrit’s panting stopped for a moment as his pained expression transformed into one of anticipation, a cautious panic. “What’s happening? Is it Klea?”
The bard now stared at the Captain, his forehead scrunching under his superfluous headdress, “How…Yes, it is the High Cleric…there are rumblings that the Duquan has begun, her healing powers have taken their first step in recession.”
“But, that’s not possible!” shouted Jerrit, sending the Bard scampering backwards in fear, “My sister doesn’t love him…”
“Your sister,” interrupted the bard as he assembled the puzzle, “You must be Captain Jerrit Landis then. A pleasure to meet you. My deepest sympathies for my rudeness earlier, had I known…”
Jerrit waved off the bard’s apology as he looked to the west, the Buron Market was only a few blocks away, and a mere stroll compared to the distance he had covered already.
“Alright bard, be on your way…I will see for myself once I regain my breath.”
The man in the purple and yellow costume bowed gratefully as he turned and continued on his path. No doubt this meeting would be buried somewhere in the tomes of Cirillian lore; the day when the Duquan began, and the harrowing tale of one bard’s meeting with the jealous brother. Jerrit’s disapproval would soon become known, if it hadn’t already. Bards had amazing memory, and that one would certainly not omit what he had just learned from his own accounts.
It all was irrelevant though, what anyone thought of Jerrit at this point. Time itself was on the verge of collapsing, and the only thing that was happening as it should was the one thing Jerrit had been sent to stop; Klea’s death.
Reaching into his pocket, Jerrit grabbed Quinton’s scroll. Now that things had gone astray, would the mage know anything more?
The knight’s fingers worked feverishly to unroll the parchment, as his eyes scanned for a new entry. In the sliver of empty space that remained, there was fresh writing. Jerrit sighed with relief, at least the mage had not abandoned him; hope remained.

No change still, and Klea’s death draws near. Do whatever necessary to keep her alive, even if it means further disrupting time. I feel that your path may have veered from where it should be, so there can be no more delay, kill anyone who is a threat to her, no matter the cost.

Jerrit’s heart sunk, but it was not for the prospect of killing. That, he was accustomed to, something that he had prepared himself to do, knowing full well that it could be necessary. He would stop anything that threatened Klea, there was no questioning that. But what made the knight’s blood turn cold was the thought of failure, the consequences of defeat. Never had he carried such a burden before; it was not just his own life that he had to save, or the lives of his soldiers, for the first time, he had to save his own blood.
Tucking the letter back into his pocket, Jerrit lifted his golden sword from it’s sheath and brought it to his lips. It hadn’t been long since blood had last dripped, back at the Fox’s Fang when it’s razor’s edge bit into Vallius’s arm, severing sword from wielder. It would draw blood once again, but who’s Jerrit could not be certain. First he would figure out what was happening to Klea, and then he would unleash his blade upon whoever stood in his sister’s way. Giving his sword a quick kiss, Jerrit withdrew it from his face and placed it once again in it’s sheath. By now his breath had grown slightly stronger, and though his legs felt like stone underneath him, he needed to keep pressing onward.
Only minutes had passed before Jerrit was trotting through the Buron Market, weaving in and out of the ritual early morning buyers. There was no more activity than usual in the streets, and only a handful of bards had arrived, but more would be on their way as word spread through Cirill.
“Does anyone know where the High Cleric is?” Jerrit yelled out to the people around him, who turned from their grocery exchanges with stares of annoyance. Nobody spoke until one young woman carrying a basket of bread stepped away from the wooden fruit cart she had been surveying, “Yes, I have heard that the High Cleric has fallen ill on the floor of Jule’s Alchemy, a result of the wonderful Duquan. She is just up the street.”
The woman pointed north quickly as she eyed him with worry.
Jerrit spared no time for thanks as he turned his head down and ran as fast as he could through the cobblestone street. People moved out of his way, jumping to the side and shouting he passed. Most did not recognize him without his knight’s armor, and his golden sword sheathed. They looked at him with puzzlement as he blew by, some with alarm, set by Jerrit’s own worried expression. The Duquan was a joyous occasion, why was their reason to worry?
The knight rounded a corner where the street bent left, and was greeted by the small sign handing from the roof of a wooden building, “Jule’s Alchemy” Jerrit muttered to himself. A small crowd had formed around the door as the guardsmen tried to hold back the bards that struggled for a glimpse of the High Cleric.
“Out of my way!” Shouted Jerrit has he pushed the bards to the side, trying to make his way to the front door. A few of the larger men took umbrage to the newcomer’s aggression, grabbing Jerrit by the arms and throwing him back outside of the fray. “Damnit! Let me through!” the knight shouted, drawing his sword into the faint sunlight of the early morning. The two men pushed their lips together as they hurriedly stepped back, saying nothing as they parted to form an open path.
Jerrit bolted forward through the easy passage, then flashed his sword at the guards who immediately waved him though, then closed their formation once again.
The knight took a minute to stand outside of the shop and take a breath. He had found Klea at last, but by the sounds of it, he had been too late.
Placing his hand on the doorknob, Jerrit twisted the handle and fought the door open, putting all of his body weight into the pull. Suddenly the door gave way with a loud bang as the large plank of wood came loose, revealing the scene inside.
Jerrit took a minute to gather his balance, and then proceeded inside, closing the door behind him. In the middle of the small, musty shop laid Klea, moaning on the floor, but not from pain. There was something else wrong with her. A sweat broke over her face and her long blonde hair tossed about as her head swept back and forth, gently oblivious to her surroundings.
“She looses her powers as we speak,” Letty’s voice spoke from a dark corner of the room, where he perched himself upon a stool. His arms were crossed and his eyes held bags underneath them, studying the High Cleric’s every move. “She has been like this for some time. It’s the strangest thing that I’ve ever seen to be honest; all at once, her powers gone. I’ve heard the stories of the Duquan, but I always thought that it took effect much slower.”
“There is nothing strange,” another voice appeared from the few soldiers that stood in the room. Marcus was present, stepping forward to get another pride filled look at his future wife. “Klea and I have a bond stronger than you give us credit for, and this is proof. The powers of the church flee her body, expelled by her passion for me.”
It took every bit of restraint that Jerrit possessed to keep from attacking Marcus on the spot, but for all of his effort, it was not enough to keep him from speaking.
“How could you be such a fool Marcus? To think that Klea harbored any feelings for you is absurd! Let alone a strong enough bond to commence the Duquan!”
It was then that Jerrit’s eyes fell upon a small bottle that sat atop one of the many shelves in the Alchemy shop. It was inconspicuous, randomly placed among thousands of other bottles that littered the store, but it called out to Jerrit, forced him to look as it’s finely engraved glass held his attention, almost slapping him in the face as it flaunted before him. It bore the Landis family insignia, and it was empty.
“No…” Jerrit gasped silently, turning to survey Klea, he realized what had happened, what a horrible mistake had occurred.
“What’s wrong?” Letty asked from his corner, his tired eyes witnessing Jerrit’s panic, noting his strange silence.
“I…I…need to find Darren,” the Captain sputtered as his eyes continued to stare at the woman on the floor before him.
Marcus began to laugh, his spirits high from his newfound victory, “No need to search my friend, we found him in the storage room of the shop, spying on the Lady.”
The towering knight turned towards the back of the store, “Vaka, bring him out!”
Marcus turned around once more, his grin stretching from ear to ear as Vaka and another soldier dragged Darren out from the back room on his knees. The knight had been bloodied only slightly; a small cut above his eyebrow the only sign of a struggle. His eyes were now calm, partially shut, gazing hazily at the others in the room. However when Darren’s eyes found Jerrit, they sprung to life, the knight leaping to his knees and struggling against his captors.
“Jerrit! Jerrit! I didn’t know this would happen! This isn’t what I wanted!”
Everyone in the room regarded Darren with pity, the type of look one gives when there is no other expression fitting, no words comfortable.
“May I have a word with Darren…alone?” Jerrit walked across the room, taking a wide route around Klea to get to Darren. Nodding to Vaka and the other guard as they let their prisoner go, Jerrit pointed his blade at Darren’s chest, “Walk, now.”
The crazed knight thought to say something to Jerrit, but his mouth fell silent. After flashing a quick smile, Darren turned and walked into the back room, where Jerrit followed, closing the door behind them.
As Darren turned around to talk, Jerrit landed a firm punch in his friend’s jaw, followed by a kick in the stomach as he fell back, crashing into, and breaking open a crate of exotic plants.
Darren groaned in pain as he felt his jawline, checking to make sure that it was still set in place and all his teeth remained. “What was…” he began to grumble, but Jerrit was upon him, hoisting the knight up by his neck against the wall, both hands wrapped tightly as Darren’s feet barely managed to touch the ground.
“What the hell were you thinking!” Jerrit bellowed, tightening his grip even further.
Darren’s face became purple and his cheeks swelled as his tried to spit out an answer, but with no success.
Reluctantly, Jerrit released his grip and let Darren collapse back to the ground, coughing and wheezing with every breath as natural color began to return in his face. The Captain folded his hands in front of him as he stood against the wall opposite Darren, waiting for an answer.
It took a few moments, but once Darren was able to breathe normally again, he bowed his head in apology as he began to explain.
“That potion! She said it would change anyone’s strongest feeling, I remember clearly when she told you that! So why didn’t it work? It made things worse!”
Still Jerrit said nothing. His fingers twitched with anger, the yearning to reach for his sword was strong, but he managed to stay composed.
“I…I don’t know what happened,” Darren continued as he crashed one fist into the hard wood floor, too overcome with emotion to feel any pain, “I tricked her…she was just here like normal, looking for new potions to learn about and sample…but I tricked her into taking that potion…but now it’s worse.” The knight began to strike the floor again, over and over until his knuckles bled.
There was a knock on the door as Vaka’s muffled voice entered the room, “Captain Landis, are you alright in there?”
Jerrit stepped away from the wall and walked towards Darren, seizing him by the wrists, shaking his head in a silent plea to stop.
“Yes Vaka, we are fine, only another moment.”
The Islander could be heard stepping away from the door, his metal clanging back towards the alchemy shop.
“I’m so sorry Jerrit…” Darren sobbed once again. “I only wanted Klea to seek me, I wanted her to change her mind on Marcus.”
“Well my friend,” Jerrit released Darren’s wrists as he stood up and turned away, “I cannot fault you for your devotion, your tenacity, but what you failed to consider was Klea’s true wishes. She did not want to marry Marcus, she was only cooperating because she believed that it was for good of the people. Anyone who knows her could understand that. Even though she and I have had our difficulties, I know her well enough to tell you now that she resents the idea of leaving the church. She hates that Marcus is doing this to her, and doesn’t understand why, but at the same time, if she were to reject his offer, more damage would be done to Cirill that she cares to see. Years of tradition and lore would be tarnished, the people would come to despise her and her position…Klea knows better than to think she is bigger than something like the Duquan, but she doesn’t enjoy it.”
As Jerrit spoke, an expression of panic began to form of Darren’s face, an understanding of what he had done.
“So…so you mean to say, that horrible potion that I used…took her hate for Marcus, and reversed it?”
Jerrit closed his eyes and bowed his head towards the wall, “Yes, now you understand what you have wrought…had you not interfered, Klea would have gone through with the marriage, but her powers would have stayed, her devotion to the church would have remained, because no matter how much she tried to please the people of Cirill, her heart would remain with the church. Eventually people would start to take notice, and the marriage would be exposed as the scam that it is…that…is of course what would have happened.”
Darren jumped to his feet, clenching his bloodied fists, he began to scan the room franticly, his adrenaline reaching it’s peak and his voice trembling with anger. “Damn it all! The only thing left to do is kill Marcus!”
Jerrit’s eyes opened.
The Captain turned around quickly; a grin dancing it’s way across his lips. This was it. Even when his goal seemed to be teetering on the edge of a canyon, ready to fall to the slightest cool breeze, Jerrit was satisfied. He knew what needed to be done, for the first time since he had been sent back in time, for the first time since he had disappeared, he now could see his mark directly in front of him.
“I think you are right friend.”
Darren stopped his search for a moment, his expression halted by the shock of what he had just heard. He dared not speak any words before more was explained.
“I…I have a like interest,” Jerrit started as he placed both his hands on Darren’s shoulder’s and leaning inwards to lock eyes, “In fact I could say that my interest is the same…I had hoped this would not be the case, but I too have exhausted all options in my own quest. Now our road’s seem to have joined my friend.”
Darren still did not speak, he was stunned with surprise and for that Jerrit could not blame him. He himself was unsure of what he had just proposed. A Captain of the Knights, committing the act of murder upon another Captain? Never before had this happened in the hundreds of years of Cirillian tradition, but never before had two Captains hated each other so much, and never before had the fate of time been at stake.
Jerrit had to. It was his one path, and he would make sure not to stray. The consequences to time, he could only imagine, but if Quinton said any change was acceptable, then Jerrit would trust that his word would hold true.
“Trust me” Jerrit walked around to the back of his friend, who in turn peered over his shoulder nervously.
A sudden kick in the back sent Darren into a collision course with the opposite wall, where the knight hit with a brutal impact and fell to the ground.
“Guard!” Jerrit yelled at the top of his lungs as he drew his golden sword and waited.
Armor clanged as it sprung to life outside the door, a moment after the wooden entry blew open as Vaka and two guards entered with weapons drawn. Relief set into their faces as they saw Darren squirming on the ground in pain.
“Take him away” Jerrit waved his hand as he walked around the guards and headed towards the door.
One of the soldiers reached down to lift Darren from the ground, but as he knelt, the pained knight reached up from his position, grabbing the guard by the neck and throwing him to the ground. Once the first move was made, Jerrit closed the door and wrapped his left arm around the nearest guard, choking him silent as his sword found the hole in the soldier’s armor, slowly plunging into his back.
By the time Vaka had realized what was happening, Darren already had his man pinned on the ground, stabbing his victim through the chest with his own blade. The Islander began to make a move towards the crazed knight, unbuckling his mace from his side and opening his mouth to yell, but before he could, he felt Jerrit’s cold blade on the back of his neck, it’s point resting against his skin. Without a fight, Vaka dropped his mace and lifted his hands without a word.
Darren wiped the blood from his face as he stood up, bloodied sword in hand, ready to take the life of the newest knight, but Jerrit stopped him, “Hold friend! This man surrenders. He does not wish to hurt us, he does not care enough about the affairs of knights to oppose our cause.”
Jerrit held his breath for a moment as he studied Darren’s reaction. Vaka couldn’t die here. Perhaps there was still hope for the Islander, but only if he survived this room.
“Well, what do you suggest we do with him then? Tie him up and gag him back here while we take care of Marcus?”
Before an answer could be formed, the always-calm voice of the islander arose, “You are going to kill Captain Therin? Then I wish to help.”
Darren shot a confused glance at Jerrit as he tried to reason things out. “He’s just saying that so that we let our guard down! Don’t trust this guy!”
Jerrit lowered his sword and placed it back in it’s sheath. “Vaka has more reason to want Marcus dead than either of us.”
The islander turned to his Captain with surprise, “How did you?”
Jerrit only smiled extending his hand to be shaken. “A great man I once knew told me a story about you. He told me of what Marcus had Vallius do to your family. He told me how you were captured and brought here to Cirill, all so that you could be used to fix a match, all for Marcus’s false glory…Yes islander, I know your story, and that is why I will trust you to help us.”
Beads of sweat streamed down Vaka’s bald head as he extended his hand, gripping Jerrit’s tightly. “I don’t know what man told you of this, but I honor your understanding. I will separate Captain Therin’s head from his shoulders, and when I am done I will return home to my family. That is all I wish for. I do not want to be a knight, and I do not care for the tradition of Cirill. All I want is to return home.”
Jerrit smiled, patting Vaka’s arm as he broke the handshake, “I know friend, maybe this time it happen for you.”
With these words, Jerrit turned and opened the door.
The alchemy shop was empty, save Jules himself and Letty, who remained seated in the corner, his eyes turned down to the ground and his fingers stroking the edges of the kite shield that lay in his lap.
“Letty, where is everyone?” asked Jerrit as he stormed into the room with Darren and Vaka following closely behind.
The old warrior simply remained on his stool, fixated on something within himself. His shoulders sagged as he looked up at the Captain, “Marcus took her away as soon as you walked into the room. He fears that you will try and stop him, and it would seem that he wasn’t too far off.” The old warrior looked to Darren with a smirk. “I don’t know what you did this time…but it’s a fine mess you’ve gotten us into kid.”
“I didn’t know!” yelled the younger knight as he pointed his blade in Letty’s direction, “But now we must kill Marcus, for the good of Cirill. Will you help us or stand in our way old man?”
Letty laughed wearily as he shook his head and rose from his seat, taking a moment to stretch his muscles. “Come now Darren, I’m insulted that you would even question my loyalty. I may not know any of your motives for doing this, but I will trust that you are right, and this is for the good of Cirill, because this city is all that I am interested in protecting.”
The old knight fastened his kite shield to his arm and drew his sword. “Marcus went a few blocks north of here to a priest’s house. He plans to make the Duquan official now that the High Cleric has lost her powers. Even though he pretends to be confident, he is as mystified as we are, and fears that she may change her mind soon. He wants this to be over with before anything can stop him.”
Jerrit stomped towards the exit, his sword hand made of stone, and his resolve composed of steel. “Letty, lead the way to the house. We will cut down anyone that stands in our way. We wont stop until Marcus is dead and Klea is safe, understood?”
The three other men did not speak, instead nodding in unison, each face painted with the resolve and conviction of their goal.
Seeing that his friend’s were behind him, Jerrit opened the door to the alchemy shop and darted out into the morning sun.

[Tiber]

Chapter 9

“You have lied to me long enough!”

“Stay your anger, mage.”

“I demand to know what is happening to him, I will not be kept in the dark any longer!”

“…In what position do you mistakenly place yourself? To demand questions of us is…”

“Against Chronos? Would it be even more blasphemous of me to accuse you of sabotaging our entire task? Would I be too far off base to venture a guess, that you have no idea what Chronos asks of you?”

“Yes, you would be in error, and if you were to push your opinion forward once too many times, then you would be dead, just like the mortals that we watch over.”

“Tell me now what you are doing, or I will have him destroy the time that he is trying to fix as we speak.”

“…I see your leverage has been found. I will explain, but in turn you will do as we tell you, communicating with him one last time, as we dictate.”

“…Fine.”

The echoes of footfalls on wet cobblestone paths bounced off the walls of the empty street, as the clapping of metal on metal announced their presence and purpose to the world. There were only a few who peeked out from the windows and doors of their run down abodes on the edge of the Buron Market; trying to see what the commotion was all about. Those who dared to peek, quickly withdrew at the sight as silent alarms sounded in their minds. They knew something was wrong.
Just moments before they had witnessed Marcus’s frantic dash through the very same streets, shouting orders as he went to his handful of guards whom carried the body of the High Cleric. While not in a full sprint, they made haste, as if afraid to be caught from behind, as if protecting the Cleric from something awful. The public knew something was happening between the two Knight Captains, the very open feud was a thing of the past. Now, it had unraveled into war.
Jerrit saw the eyes staring from the depths of each dwelling that he passed, he saw the fear in their eyes, and he wished that he could stop to shout at the top of his lungs, explain everything that was happening and for once turn the people against Marcus. But he didn’t have the time; he never did. Always Marcus had been one step ahead of him, always hoarding both the first and last words for himself.
“How much further?” Jerrit panted to the older knight that ran ahead of him, leading the group.
“Only another bl…” The knight’s words were severed from his mouth as three guards rounded the corner only feet in front of them. Each group held a look of surprise, a hesitation for only a moment before colliding. Letty speared himself into the middle of the group, tackling one soldier to the ground without bothering to draw his weapon. Jerrit and Darren each followed suit, plowing into the remaining two, driving them to the ground. The Captain rolled off of his man just in time to evade the downward swing of Vaka’s mace, which landed squarely in the guard’s torso, denting the armor inward and crushing the man’s chest.
As Jerrit sprung to his feet, he drew his blade quickly, ready to take the next opponent, but he found all three of the opposing guards laying lifeless on the street.
Pausing for a moment to look around, Jerrit could feel the ire of the citizens that glared at him. He and his companions just murdered three men of Cirill. There would be reckoning for that among other sins he was soon to commit. He and the others would be expelled from the knights, but that future was not too different from the one he knew. He could live with it as long as Klea was saved.
“Me must move Jerrit!” shouted Darren as he grabbed his friend by the collar of his shirt, pulling the Captain around to face the direction that Letty and Vaka already headed.
Jerrit said nothing as he sprinted forward, his thoughts still within himself, his concentration on not only the task at hand but also what would come afterwards. What of his failure? What would happen if he couldn’t save Klea? Was it even possible to reverse the Duquan once it had started? Would Klea regain her powers if the one she had come to love perished, or would her feelings simply grow in her mourning?
Letty came to a sudden stop in the middle of the street, his feet sliding atop the cobblestone that was still slick from another torrent of rain the night before. He was the first to see, but soon the rest of the group’s eyes caught the same sight, and they too came to an abrupt halt. Before them was the house that Letty spoke of, it’s fine stone architecture one of the must extravagant in all of Cirill. It was clear just by appearance, that this clergymen that enjoyed worship as well as payment for his services. He was a corrupt servant of the gods.
In front of the house stood ten men: nine guards and one knight. They formed a defensive line across the entire front of the house, the one silver clad warrior posted in the center. Jerrit’s eyes required a moment of strain to identify the man, but when he was able to tell, it came as no surprise.
“So Vallius has come to play as well,” the Captain smirked as he adjusted the grip on his sword, the nervous twitch of a swordsman.
“Well now we can squash all the bugs at once,” Darren turned his head to spit on the street. After wiping his mouth with the cloth on his wrist, the Knight began his slow trot forward. Soon Letty followed, then Vaka and finally Jerrit.
This was it.
The Captain could not remove the thought from his mind; this was the end, no matter what happened, his search was finished. Either he or Marcus would die here, and time itself would bend to the victor’s will
Darren headed straight for Vallius, and the lone opposing knight had the same idea. The two men’s swords rang out into the crisp morning air as they locked together, serving as a buffer for all of the hatred that each held. Letty was only a few steps behind Darren, but before he could lay a blow on Vallius, he was forced to lift his shield in defense as the rest of the guards descended upon him. Once the first handful of sword strikes had glanced off, Letty let out a roar as he punched his shield forward, crushing one guard’s face and sending him to the ground grasping his twisted and bloodied nose. A few guards circled around to flank the older knight from behind, but before they could take a swipe at their target, they were preempted by the Islander’s mace. The first of the guards saw the attack out of the corner of his eye, and managed to duck, but the man behind him was not so lucky as the spiked weight collided with his head at full speed. The man’s body was flung to the side as more blood splattered onto the streets. Vaka paid no heed to his victim though as he continued to swing the deadly wieght overhead, keeping it’s momentum going as he fell in behind Letty, forcing the remaining guards to stay at bay.
Jerrit was the last to join the fray as he lunged towards one of the guards that harassed Letty, burying his sword into an unarmored spot above the collarbone. His opponent felled, the Captain withdrew his golden sword, whirling to evade more sword strikes before sprinting to Darren, who continued to bash swords together with Vallius away from the rest of the fight. Seeing the advance, the enemy knight lifted his leg and kicked at Darren’s torso, pushing him away long enough to address the oncoming attack from Jerrit. Vallius lifted his sword to once again in defense, but instead of locking blades, the Captain instead fell to the ground, sliding across it’s slick surface for only a few feet, but enough to get under the enemy knight’s guard and take a swipe of his own at Vallius’s legs. Jerrit’s attempt did not work out perfectly though, as his enemy adroitly leapt from the ground, only brushing the bottom of his shoe against the Captain’s golden blade. This move tilted him slightly off balance, but it was not enough to prevent him from cocking back his own sword for a downward strike.
“No!” Darren shouted from the side as he pounced on the airborne opponent, slashing his sword into Vallius’s side and sending them both sprawling towards the ground. Darren stood quickly; turning to fend off a guard’s attack from behind as he yelled to Jerrit, “Go find Klea! We have this!”
It took a moment of uncertainty, but eventually the Captain decided that his friend was right, he must to abandon his companions. Klea had to be found immediately.
The priest’s house stood two stories high, one of the only multi-level houses in all of Crill, constructed using the tithe of the church patrons, an act against the church’s core teachings, but more importantly an act without consequence.
Only a few strides were needed for Jerrit to reach the front door, lowering his shoulder the knight left his feet, letting his momentum carry him through the wood as it splintered under his force. Rolling onto the debris-covered floor of the house, Jerrit looked around for danger. There was none present, the house was deserted. Holding the golden sword out in front of him, Jerrit cautiously rose to his feet and began to walk down the home’s main hallway towards the stairs. He proceeded on the balls of his feet, keeping the noise to a minimum as he went. Sweat began to drip from his brows and onto his bottom lip as his eyes shot to each side, watching for any indications of trouble.
The knight stopped halfway through the passage; this was too quiet.
An audible groan rose from the wooden floor. Jerrit ducked as he wheeled around, narrowly dodging the bolt of a crossbow that buried itself in the stairs at the end of the hall.
One enemy guard stood defenseless within arm’s reach of Jerrit, his one opportunity with a crossbow spent, his face pained with all colors of shock as he fumbled at his hip for a knife. By the time the guard was able to find a handle, it had become too late though. A steady and quick plunge of Jerrit’s blade into the guard’s abdomen sent his hands into relaxation, falling from the handle of his weapon as his body went limp and his eyes shot open in pain.
The knight withdrew his golden sword before the body collapsed to the ground, turning quickly to avoid any other possible traps, Jerrit made his way to the stairs.
He moved sluggishly as he ascended, each step upwards a test of endurance, each fur-covered plank of wood sending him that much closer to his defining confrontation, his inevitable battle.
The top of the stairs came as a welcome sight as the floor leveled off before Jerrit’s eyes, the small room the only one of the second story. In the middle of the room stood two men, one was Marcus, in his glowing silver and gold armor, and the other dressed in the white robes of a priest. Their expressions were grim as their eyes turned towards Jerrit, their mouths drawn tight in a reserved panic, a dignified anxiety.
“Father Tenin I presume” Jerrit stared on, his eyes squinting as the early morning sun shone through the single window opposite him. As was the case in the alchemy shop, on the floor lay Klea, her hair strewn about, and her body still. Her moaning convulsions seemed to have stopped, but this was not a welcome sight to Jerrt. It may have been too late now, if the Duquan had sucked all the power from here that it could.
“Ah Jerrit…” Marcus held his hand to the side, silencing the old priest who staggered backwards, his frail body beginning to tremble with the realization of what he had done. The Captain then wiped the expression of anxiety and in it’s place he held his familiar façade of confidence. “I thought we would be seeing you soon enough, but I must say I am disappointed to see that you have not brought us a wedding gift…That is bad form for someone like you.”
“There is no wedding Marcus, no Duquan!” Jerrit gripped his sword tightly as he studied his opponent for any false movement, an early indication of aggression, “I will kill you now false knight. I will strike you down right here, for not just my sister’s sake, but for the well being of all Cirill. And when I have stolen the last breath from your lungs, I will shout far and wide of your atrocities, I will tell of your falsehoods, your shortcuts to greatness, and I will taint the name Marcus Therin for generations.”
Marcus drew his own golden sword leisurely from his hip, twirling it around in front of him like a toy, his face lighting up as he watched it’s color shine in the sun.
“You may be right Jerrit, if you can defeat me, then you will be able to sing of my failures, my faults, but when I slay you, the world will know even more. They will know of the treasonous knight, the one who preyed on the citizens he was sworn to protect. The one who was too weak to live without blood on his hands, and when he tried to kill the one man who held his secret, he was as he had always been before, too weak.”
“You speak of the past Marcus. You speak of weaker days, days when I had no purpose, no direction. I do not deny what you accuse me of, but at the same time I tell you that is not what I am now. I am the bringer of hope to Cirill. Without me this city will fall into a dark place…I’ve already seen it’s path starting, I’ve lived through a world where you are a legend, a hero of Crill, and I tell you now that it is a place no better off than it would be with your name covered in dirt.”
Marcus’s curiosity piqued as he listened to his rival speak. “What is this madness that you spew, do you really expect me to believe your babblings?”
Jerrit smiled within. Finally, his burden could be lifted. At last there was someone who he could tell, someone who would not endanger his secret.
“You see Marcus, I am Jerrit Landis, but I am not the same one you knew. I come from three years into the future, when both you and Klea are dead, and Cirill is no better for it. I was sent here by a mage, and though I didn’t understand at the time, I now realize that I was sent here to kill you; to right the one wrong of the past that made Cirill what it is in my time. I was supposed to save Klea from death, a death that I don’t remember, and that three years after it’s occurrence, is still a mystery. I came to this time not knowing how to save her, but now that I see the events of the past, I understand what happened, how she lost her power, and how she became vulnerable. The fault is all yours. You were the one who sent our paths spiraling downward; it was your greed that doomed the woman who lays at your feet right now, her mind fooled into a false love by a potion that I should have destroyed days ago. But no matter, because I will right both of our wrongs when you lay dead before me. All will be set back on the right course, and I will return home, to my time, to see what I have accomplished.”
There was no time for a response, no chance for another accusation of madness, as Jerrit sprung forward towards his enemy, his sword ready to strike.
Marcus was taken off guard by the move, given only time to defend himself, he held his own blade out in front of him, both hands gripping the handle firmly as he planted his feet and held his ground.
There was a mighty clang of swords, a small shower of sparks as the two golden swords of Cirillian legend grinded into each other, their masters each with gritted teeth and mouths forming into primal snarls.
Father Tenin fell to the ground near Klea, amazed by the display before him. Never had the two golden captain swords clashed like this before. It was against the Cirillian traditions and teachings. The early laws forbade it, but yet it was happening, and he was the only one to witness it. The priest wrapped his thin fingers around Klea’s arms and tried to drag her away from the fight, but a few tugs across the wooden floor was all he could manage before he became exhausted from the strain. Rolling away, the old man made a path towards the stairs. He had to escape this place, no matter how terrific and historic the sight.
Jerrit and Marcus paid no heed to the fleeing holy man as their stalemate was broken with a kick from Jerrit into Marcus’s stomach. The larger knight stumbled backwards, unharmed due to the protection of his armor, but at a loss for balance. Jerrit seized this opportunity as he rushed onward once again, the sun blocking out most of his vision, as Marcus drew closer to the window. Another slash of his sword, this time a vertical cut with all of his strength behind it found it’s way to Marcus’s armor, skidding off of his chest plate and sending the Captain sprawling further backwards and into the window. The sound of shattered glass rang through the streets below as Marcus fell through the window, flipping over at the waist as he yelled out at the top of his lungs.
Jerrit quickly ran to the window, leaping up onto the bottom of it’s frame which still held remnants of the glass shards that had been sent bursting out into the street. There, teetering of the edge of the first floor’s roof lay Marcus, his right arm swinging freely over the street below, his eyes looking back up at Jerrit with alarm, blood trickling down his nose from a cut above his eye. Below this scene, the fight with the town guard raged on with fresh reinforcements now besieging the three weary knights. The battle between Darren and Vallius paused for a moment as each looked up at the roof upon hearing the scream. They could see Jerrit’s head from above the edge of the roof, where Marcus wearily stood up, his boots taking a moment of adjustment to keep steady on the slightly pitched tile.
Darren cheered from below, “Give him hell Jerrit! Make him pay!” but was cut off by a sudden attack from Vallius. Beating off one ferocious blow after another the knight stumbled backwards, up the front steps of the priest’s residents until he found himself pinned against the front of the house itself. Another strike of Vallius’s blade came high and fast, a horizontal cut that would have taken Darren’s head clean off had he not ducked it in time. Sparks flew above as the sword’s point scraped across the stone wall. Darren took his opportunity to strike, pushing off of the ground and burying his shoulder in Vallius’s wounded ribs. Though his armor was thick, the blow was hard enough to send the knight sprawling to the ground, throwing his sword into the air as he clutched his side and wailed in pain. Darren was upon his enemy quickly, ready to make the final blow, but a cry from the street drew his attention,
“Vaka!” Letty called out in alarm after cutting down another guard. The Islander had been brought to one knee, a crossbow bolt buried deep in his thigh. The newest knight yelled out in pain as he continued to swing his mace, warding off any who would try to strike him while he was vulnerable.
Darren cursed under his breath as he leapt back to his feet and hurried to help his wounded companion, cutting down two soldiers right away as he guarded Vaka’s back. The guards had finally begun to thin, their numbers no longer being replenished as some turned and fled, others simply stared on from a distance, unsure of who’s side to take.
“Go help Jerrit!” Vaka yelled as he slowly rose to his feet, his right leg holding his weight, but trembling weakly while doing so.
“We will finish them, you go help the Captain.”
After a moment of indecision, a game of waiting to see who would make the first move, Marcus turned and scampered across the roof, his every step landing dangerously close to the very edge of a perilous plummet. The proud Captain was on the run, afraid of the fight that he had many times before welcomed.
“You should have run from me a long time ago!” Jerrit barked, sliding down the roof, his feet digging into the small lip at the end of the tile to keep him from falling. Standing up, the knight began to follow his prey, who had only managed to make it to the next roof over, his bulky suit of armor weighing him down to a point where he almost fell short of the small gap in-between the houses. The rest of the structures down the street were all one story, most with flat roofs that were placed closely together and would be much easier to traverse.

[Tiber]

Chapter 9B (too big for one post)

Jerrit had little trouble getting across Father Tenin’s house, his loose clothing allowing for quick and easy movement to keep his balance. After a short leap to the next building, the knight began to sprint, closing the distance on Marcus by the third roof, where the armored knight realized that it was pointless to run any further. After landing another jump, Marcus spun around and planted his feet, lunging back at Jerrit who had been within striking distance. Taken by surprise, Jerrit lifted his blade to deflect the impact, but caught in midair he was helpless. The two swords bounced off one another, Marcus’s turning inwards of Jerrit and digging into the knight’s exposed shoulder.
The force of the blow stopped the knight’s momentum in the air, and sent him flailing to the ground below. There was nothing to grab onto, nothing soft to land on. A thud rattled Jerrit’s body as he hit the street below feet first. Immediately his knees bucked, one twisting in the wrong direction as his body spun in agony. There was an audible pop as he hit the ground and a surge of pain came speeding from his left leg to seize his every thought. Yelling without reserve, the knight dropped his sword and grasped his knee, curling up from the ground as he bowed his head over the injury, his eyes squeezing shut as his teeth clenched. From above Marcus watched with relief. This was to be easier than he thought. Swinging himself over the edge of the roof, the knight dangled, his feet lowering to nearly half the distance of the fall. Preparing his body, the knight let go and landed on his feet without damage.
Jerrit heard his opponent’s armor rattle and knew that he had to get up, he had to last until he could get help. Lifting himself from the ground with his arms, Jerrit stood on just his right leg. Using his sword as a crutch he began to hobble down the alley. It was awkward, but he made good ground nonetheless, his adrenaline propelling him a full body length with each jump. It was the instinct to survive at it’s strongest. Jerrit didn’t need to steal a backwards glance to know that Marcus was getting closer, his armor jostling louder and louder with each heavy step.
Sensing that a move had to be made, the hobbled knight leapt to his right at the intersection of another alley, ducking into the first door he could find. It was the back entry to a modest one-room hut made completely of wood. It looked like a sort of workshop; a shed who’s owner was vacant, and for that Jerrit was grateful. Closing the door quickly behind him, Jerrit made his way across the small room as best he could, obstructed by chairs, benches, and tools that lay sloppily across the floor.
Only halfway to his goal, the door he had just passed through burst off it’s hinges and fell to the floor under the force of Marcus’s kick.
“Stay your retreat Knight!” he spoke with a beaming smile, his joy so strong that he seemed unfazed by his own pains. “Stand and fight me! Slay me as your future dictates! Do what you have been sent here to do!”
Marcus lifted his sword with both hands next to his head, the point of the blade touching the roof.
Just as the knight was about to make his move, in stepped another through the broken door, her footsteps soft but her voice stern, “Marcus! Stop this madness!”
The knight’s sword lowered with surprise as he turned to see Klea’s eyes filled with tears. She looked back and forth between the two men, silently pleading for a cease to the fight.
“Klea, are you well?” Marcus asked, stepping back against the far wall to ensure that he could see both Klea and Jerrit in the same line of vision.
“Yes…” her voice fell to the ground as she ducked her head in sorrow, “Father Tenin woke me only moments after you left. He said that Jerrit had come to kill you, but I didn’t believe it, so I went out the window chasing after you two, to stop this fighting.” Her voice rose to a shout as she looked to Jerrit, spilling her emotions out onto the floor of the workshop, “Why are you fighting! I am going to marry Marcus! The Duquan has already begun and you can’t live with that! So you come to kill Marcus? You are even worse than I thought!” With those words Klea walked past Marcus, caressing his bloody cheek as she inspected his wound.
“Let’s go. Leave my brother here to languish in what he has done.”
As the two took their first steps, there was a crash in the doorway. Glass shattered as flames made their way over the doorframe. Marcus rushed to the exit as fast as he could, but the heat of the flames beat him back, singing the hair on his head as he neared.
Klea’s lungs filled with panic as she turned to look for other exits. The only one she found was the front door, whose doorknob she turned feverishly, but to no avail, it was locked shut.
Marcus hurried over, bounding over the various woodworking of the shop to try and help. He put his shoulder into the door once, twice, three times and not even a budge or a crack in the doorframe.
Meanwhile the flames spread up the wall and began to engulf the roof, flowing across the treated wooden surface like water down a hill.
Jerrit’s eyes turned from the flames as he looked out the single window at the front of the shed. Too small for anyone to fit through, Jerrit hobbled over and cupped his face against it. His eyes found a lone figure standing out in the street, looking back at him with haunting black eyes. His silver armor shimmered in the morning sunlight, his long hair waving in front of his face as a breeze passed down the street. In his right hand he dangled a wide iron bowl, used in the street lanterns throughout Cirill to keep the oil contained in case of a leak.
“Darren!” Jerrit yelled as he thrusted his fist through the small window. A burst of fresh air rushed through, clearing the smoke from he immediate area for just a moment. Pushing his face up against the broken glass, the knight shouted out into the street, “You bastard! I’m still in here!”
The knight in the street simply stared on, his eyes lit up by the fire that began to rise through the roof.
Jerrit punched the wall in a rage as he once again pushed his face against the glass. His head could get out, but his shoulders would not clear, no matter how hard he tried. “We are still in here!” he cried again, “Klea is still in here!”
It was those words that brought about a change in Darren’s expressionless face. A look of dread formed, as his eyes grew even wider and his mouth hung agape. His hands shot up to his head and grabbed tufts of hair. The knight began to run towards the front door, which Marcus was still trying to jar open, but after a few steps he stopped and simply fell to his knees, bowing his head to the ground as he began to weep.
A large crack, a sound of wood splitting emanated from the roof as a support beam fell to the left of the front door, missing Marcus and Klea by only feet as the knight grabbed his love and spun away. As they threw themselves against the wall, more debris fell and spread fire to the floor, blocking off the two parties entirely. Jerrit limped away from the window and lifted his head to look over the flames. There he could see Marcus’s strained expression as he looked up at the roof, each section that fell drawing closer and closer to him. In his arms he held Jerrit’s sister close. Her eyes no longer filled with tears, replaced by the cold realization of death. She looked at Jerrit over the wall of flames and floating ash without expression, her eyes simply observing, stealing their last glances as the last section of the roof fell down on top of them.
Jerrit turned away and fell onto the floor, his body wracked with anguish as he pounded the ground with his fist. A tear fell from his eye as he rolled over and pulled from his pocket Quinton’s letter. Pushing his body backward across the floor he propped himself up to sit against a wall. Carefully he unrolled it the thin parchment, the blood from his fingers smearing over the page. A new entry was being formed as Jerrit read it.

I am sorry Jerrit, but this will be out last communication. Unfortunately your purpose has been served. I cannot bring you back to this time, as you are meant to die. That is the wish of Chronos. Before you pass, you should know that your journey has been a success. I did not know this at the time I sent you back, but you were never meant to save Klea. You were sent back in time to fulfill your own destiny, and maintain the balance of time, to allow for Klea’s death, and the death of her talent. That too, was the ultimate wish of Chronos. You have done well. Now rest, and let yourself be stolen away from this time to which you do not belong.

- Quinton


Jerrit dropped the paper into his lap as he thrusted his head back against the wall.
“Damn it all…Darren…”
He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, bringing his golden sword to lie across his chest as he waited. Waited to be saved from his nightmare, waited to hear Klea’s laugh once more, waited for the very last portion of the roof to crumble over his head, crushing him and taking him out of this time as abruptly as he had been put in it. He sat for only a moment in solemn silence counting each breath, listening to each crackle of fire, and then what he had been waiting for came tumbling down upon him.



“Letty!”

“Darren! Where’s Jerrit?”

“There was a fire…Letty…they must have knocked something over during their fight…the whole building was engulfed by the time I caught up to them.”

“No! No!”

“Letty…get ahold of yourself. We have to leave here. Go help Vaka to his feet, and then we must run. Vallius and his troops will give chase once they see the building on fire.”

“Theres no way that he…?”

“No Letty…I’m sorry but Jerrit is gone, as is Marcus.”

“But…what happens now? We must find Klea…she is our only hope of survival. Only she can call Vallius and his men off.”

“Lets…lets worry about Klea later. She must have gotten lost somewhere in the confusion of the battle. We can’t afford to look for her. I’m sure she will be fine.”

“Where are we to hide? The whole city is going to be searching for us.”

“We will go underground. Jerrit had enough stolen coin stored away in the sewers to sustain the three of us for a while. Once they have stopped looking for us, we will come back up and abandon our knighthoods. We become bandits. I will buy off Vallius to keep him off of our backs. He wont care too much once we aren’t a direct threat to him.”

“…Alright…to the underground we go.”

[Tiber]

Epilogue


Jerrit crouched under the overhang of Jule’s Alchemy, one of the only dry spots in the entire market on such a horribly bad night. He wore a brown robe that had frayed on the bottom from three years of sweeping against the streets, it’s bottom half caked in mud from the countless stormy nights that it had endured. He had no other clothing, save the shirt that had been riddled with holes from mice, and tattered pants that he wore underneath. Though he made every effort to hold his hands in close to his body to keep them warm, they were anything but, having lost even the slightest tingling sensation hours ago. His face was numb from the wind, rubbed red by it’s relentless blowing that he could not escape. His feet felt like logs under him, frozen before anything else on his body. He could hardly manage to bend his toes, let alone shift his foot without a surge of pain.
It had been nearly three years since his death, or so he had heard. Three years without a name, without an identity. He was now known as a lurker of the street, nothing more. The name Jerrit Landis was dead to everyone. A name that could not be reclaimed by it’s owner, a name who’s owner would not even want to claim. It had become a name for everything wrong with the city, a name that was to be spat on and blamed, the name of a fallen knight, who perished an unexplained fire, brought on by his own greed as he vandalized a peasant’s work shed in search of money. A petty crime that allowed those who worshiped Marcus to expose who Jerrit Landis really was. Every exploit of his past had come to light, every coin that he, Darren, and Letty had stolen from beggars was counted. Even Vaka had been thrust into the group, painted as a thief as punishment for his choice of sides.
It had been a long time though since Jerrit had heard anything else of himself. The public outrage had died down, and passed onto others as it always had.
“Damn I need to find some shoes,” he cursed under his shivering breath as his eyes combed the nearly vacated thoroughfare for any signs of reprieve, but there were none. He would just have to suffer.
Jerrit had a hard time enduring this hardship. He had become acclimated to the freezing conditions and lack of sleep, but when did this happen? How did her wind up here? The past three years had just been a blur of suffering. He didn’t have any memories for a few days after he had come so close to dying in that burning shop. His first recollection was one of alarm. Waking up under the ashes of the building, drawing his first breath from a small hole. Wincing as he felt the small flakes of dust flow into the lungs, and his body was reminded of pain. He struggled to move, but either his body was too weak of the debris was too heavy. After that moment his memory blacked out again, turning cold and dark as the clouds above him. His survival was miracle to which he had no answer.
Looking down towards his hand, Jerrit observed the burns that covered most of his body, scorching most of his face beyond recognition. He cursed the wounds that he bore. They drove everyone away, old and young fled from the sight of this particular street dweller. Even though his image was reviled by all, he had come to realize that his burns may have saved his life numerous times. They kept him hidden from his identity. Nobody would recognize him, and that would keep the loyalists to the late Marcus Therin from ever finding him.
To his right, the door to Jule’s Alchemy came open with a loud crack. It had always been that way as long as Jerrit could remember. Jule never bothered to fix it though. He always called it more of a charm than a hassle, but that was just an excuse to cover his laziness. Jerrit had offered to help fix it months ago, but the alchemist didn’t trust the man who could almost always be found outside of his store on a rainy night.
Upon hearing the door jar open, Jerrit ducked back behind a nearby pile of crates to keep from detection. The large wooden boxes reeked of something that he could not figure out. It was likely just another awful ingredient ordered by the crazed Alchemist.
Peering over his cover, Jerrit could see a man in dark blue vest stumble out of the door, clinging to the wood’s handle for balance. His gaze immediately combed the street as he let the door close behind him. Satisfied with what he saw, or rather what he didn’t see, the man pulled down on his vest to straighten it out, and grabbed for his golden necklace, tucking it into his shirt in an effort to keep it out of sight.
Yes, it was plain to see, this man knew this street, or at least it’s reputation. He looked down every last pathway for dangers, taking his time to ensure that he passed without attention. He bit hard on his bottom lip as he went, a way to calm the nerves. The man had no intention of being robbed this night, for he no doubt had something valuable on his person. Perhaps money from a sale at Jule’s, or even better, a big purchase. Whatever it may have been, it was worth being protective of. Knowing this, Jerrit could not resist making this man’s prize his own. He had grown too hungry to let such an opportunity pass him by.
As the blue vested man walked by, Jerrit rose from his position behind the Alchemy shop crates. His eyes followed the clueless victim with a sharp, combing stare, sizing his up, and scouting for the move ahead. Jerrit had come to learn that those who lived on the streets had, if nothing else, a keen eye for people, and the former knight had put his skills to use, becoming one of the best, most feared robbers in all the city. Deftly, he fell in line behind his target, stepping quietly, dipping his blistered, discolored toes into the puddles as not to land flat-footed and cause an audible splash. The man in blue vests for his part did an excellent job avoiding the few beggars he did see on the street, darting right and left as he went to form a spastic path of vigilance. The beggars were harmless enough, lying in plain sight, emaciated to the point that most could not manage to stand. Still though, he remained fearful and cautious. No experience on the streets to be sure, because if he had known the first thing about the beggars on this pathway, he would have known that the pathetic sights he saw to his sides were not the threats. The true danger came with the street way denizens that could not be seen. They were the to be feared above all others.
And indeed, as the vested man pivoted to check behind upon hearing the sound of a robe rippling in the wind, he learned that very lesson. It was Jerrit, the man he did not see, that he did not make an effort to avoid, that now bridged the distance between them with a few full strides.
“No! Please!” the victim roared with eyebrows pointed upwards and hands outstretched in defense. Jerrit said nothing, nor did he show any emotion. His lips stayed straight and his eyes focused, unblinking. This was something he had to do. He certainly did not take any pleasure in his course of action, but he had done the same thing before, both as a knight and as a street dweller. And just like every time before, he simply wanted to get it over with.
The man in blue vests yelled out as the disgraced knight came within arm’s reach, but a quick palm to the face covered his mouth and drove his head down into a puddle on the cold stone street. There Jerrit held his victim, who’s attempts to push and kick free were futile. He was just too weak, too pampered, to contend with a brute who had come to be made even stronger by the streets. A rusted old knife was drawn from within Jerrit’s robe, and without any hesitation or showman’s flair, was plunged through the front of the blue vest.
The victim’s eyes widened for a moment as the pain struck him. Jerrit soon withdrew his hand from his victim’s mouth, which now began to fill with blood. Choosing to let the knife remain where it was for a bit longer, the former knight stood up and looked around for any witnesses. He saw only other beggars who had all stained their own hands with blood at one time or another. Barbaric to the rest of the world, this was only commonplace to them. Jerrit paused where he stood, reflecting on what he had become. He was now what he had once sworn to eradicate, what he had preyed on without mercy. Those who’s numbers he had taken advantage of during his entire career, he had now joined.
He felt a cold rush sweep over his body as he looked at what he had done. He was not new to this experience, but nonetheless his adrenaline never failed to pump. It was a terrible act. He knew that well, but as his grimy hands swarmed over the blue vested man’s neck, feeling the texture of the thin golden jewelry, he could not help but feel proud. It had been a long time since he had seen been in possession of such a valuable item. He would eat this night, and the next. Perhaps even for a week. He could barter for a used pair of shoes, or even a simple little knife to replace the brittle piece of rust that he now wielded; a far cry from the golden sword that he once held proudly, the sword that disappeared from his possession after the fire.
The gold chain came undone easy enough, and was quickly deposited in his brown robe. He wanted so badly to wear it just once. To once again feel what it was like to have some sort of excess, just a taste of extravagance. He would have to wait though until he got to a safer place, lest some other hungry observer got jealous. With a twitching smile, Jerrit continued his search. Where was the object from the Alchemy shop? He could have sworn he saw it placed inside of the blue… “Ah!” he declared with joy as his fingers found a small pouch within the left breast pocket. A lucky day this was.
As he loosened the strings of the small leather pouch, he heard footsteps behind him. With anger in his eyes, he wheeled around to confront whoever dared try to sneak up on him. But before his head was even turned, a blade plunged itself into his left ribs.
The man staggered back to the ground, the large sword that was now lodged in his ribs clanging as it’s handle rattled after impact with the ground.
“Wh…Wh…” Jerrit spluttered with shock as he looked up to see four figures standing at his feet. He did not recognize them initially, but as his eyes strained, he was able to see one of the swords they had drawn. It was golden from handle to tip; it’s razor edge shimmering even in the rain. A horribly cold chill went down his spine as he now recognized his attackers. There were only two people in the city who could have possessed that sword, and the man who stood before him was not Marcus. His eyes scanned each with a look of dread. He did not know how it was possible, but before him stood Darren, Vaka, Letty, and himself. What was this trickery, this illusion? What kind of spell had been cast on him? He thought to speak to his friends, tell them that he was still alive, tell Darren that after three years, he forgave him, but has he reached out his hand and saw the burns; he was reminded that it was impossible. He could see in their cold stares that they did not recognize him. Even to them he appeared only as just another street beggar.
With his energy fleeing from his body, Jerrit looked again at his right hand. There he still gripped his recently procured pouch. “No…” he gasped as all became clear. This was no illusion, the men before him were as real as he, and reason for it all sat comfortably inside the leather pouch, the reason that he had failed to correct time, the reason that he would never be able to, no matter how many times he was sent back.
His only hope, their only hope, was for Jerrit to destroy the potion now, before it fell back into the endless cycle of time.
Awkwardly swinging his right arm above him, he began to tremble, his wound sapping the life from him. He had to hurry, but his arm would not move. His strength had carried him a long way, but this was where it would stop, on this rainy night, on this dark street, with destiny in the palm of his hand, waiting to be smashed.
“Alright beggar. Your time is through.” Declared the younger Jerrit as he walked forward, his short blonde hair drenched in the rain that continued on down his face and formed a fountain off of his nose.
The former knight had to try something, anything to delay this final blow. “Jerrit…Don’t…” he pleaded, lifting his bare left palm in defense.
The figured that hovered over him paused for a moment, startled by hearing his own name. After a slight hesitation, a temptation to ask the dying man how they were familiar, the younger Jerrit steeled himself and immediately plunged his golden blade into the burnt old shell. The former knight let out a horrible yell, a cry to the gods and all who would listen, a wordless curse to those who knew of his fate, but did not change it, did not give him an opportunity to avoid it. As his breath began to fail, Jerrit’s head collapsed to the ground, his right hand falling to his side and spilling the small leather pouch, undamaged, onto the cobblestone street.