Legends of Luternia (21 page)

Thanks be to God, thought Ulrik. He bent down and helped Harald to stand. “You could not have come at a better time. Please, join us, but not to die, but to fight and live.”

Harald motioned the others forward and when they all arrived they first formed an honor guard around the prince, then set the rest of the soldiers between Ulrik’s shattered forces and the Mage’s army. One of the soldiers looked at Barty and said, “Don’t I know you? You’re the one who fleeced me out of two month’s pay with crooked dice!” Before Barty could reply the enemy began to attack. “No matter,” said the soldier, “Let’s show this Mage and his vermin how real soldiers fight.”

With one voice the new arrivals cried out, “No quarter sought, and no quarter given!” They formed up, double file, with swords and spears at the front, bowmen behind. Ulrik recognized some of the bowmen from the contests held in the courtyard. Harald stood in front of Ulrik and before he readied his bow he turned to the prince and winked, then nocked an arrow. At the command to loose the bowmen raised their bows and showered destruction upon the enemy’s ranks.

The second and third volleys slowed the progress but failed to stop it. The castle soldiers fell back, mixing with Ulrik’s line of volunteers. Prester John gave the command to attack and they drove the enemy to retreat. Exhausted after the surge, he pulled the soldiers back a second time.

“Ulrik,” said Barty, breathing hard, his breastplate dented and smeared with dirt and blood, his cape in shreds, “I don’t know if we’ll survive the day. But let me thank God that I was able to be with you today. We’ve come a long way since I went chasing after you to get away from the castle.”

“They’re coming again!” cried someone from the field. This time the Mage led, riding the scorpion that lashed its pincers and tail at will. No one dared close in on him.

A cry rose up from Ulrik’s ranks, “An angel, an angel of light!” Ulrik looked up to see a bright flash in the sky moving towards them The light took an uneven course, gaining altitude then losing it only to gain it again, flying to the right and then to the left.

“Strange angel,” said Barty.

“I don’t think this is your everyday angel.” replied Ulrik. The light flew faster and closer, let out a bellow, and fell with loud thump atop the scorpion. A great roaring and clanking thundered from a huge cloud of dust that slowly dispersed to reveal Illyricus in golden armor attacking the scorpion. The scorpion, although broken, continued to fight, stabbing with its stinger. The dragon caught the stinger in his jaws, bit it off and spat it out with disgust. Without its great weapon and broken nearly in two, the scorpion scuttled off the battle field, leaving the Mage sitting disheveled in the dust.

Illyricus rose in the midst of the enemy and roared, blowing fire this way and that over their heads. Then he turned to face the Mage. The Mage stood, unafraid, and began chanting some spell against the dragon. Illyricus seemed to fall in to a trance. His eyes glazed over and he slowly limped off to one side of the battlefield, raising a cloud of dust dragging his wing on the ground. Then the Mage looked at Ulrik and froze the prince with his stare, as he had done in the castle tower so many months before. The Mage raised the edges of his robe apart while filthy, grey smoke spread about his feet, lifting him off the ground.

Hovering, he moved toward Ulrik, soldiers from each side gave way as the Mage advanced to his target. No one moved when the wizard settled in front of the mesmerized prince. The Mage reached out and clutched the prince with one arm. His sharpened teeth were bared, and he pulled a black dirk from his belt, poison dripping from the tip. “Scorpions aren’t the only ones with stingers,” hissed the Mage. “My prince, taste now a final kiss and feed the true ruler of your kingdom.” He raised the knife, about to plunge it into Ulrik’s neck when the ground began to shake under their feet. The Mage released the prince.

A crack in the ground appeared between them. The Mage wickedly smiled, showing his blackened and pointed teeth. The crack grew and a cloud of smoke rose and formed into a hideous demon. It turned to the Mage and spoke, “How dare you defy me, oh feckless one? Once you called me to witness your oath and now you have broken that oath. Oh, liar and fool, you may break your oaths, but I never do.” Smoke flowed out from the demon, encircled the Mage, and pulled him into the fissure. The Mage’s screams were silenced when the earth closed. Leaderless and demoralized, with the promise of reward gone, the wizard’s army took to flight. When Ulrik’s soldiers began to give chase, the prince raised his arms and commanded, “Stop! Enough lives have been lost.”

The battle over, Illyricus pleaded, “Get this stuff off of me,” as he tried to extricate himself from the armor.

“I could if you would stop fussing!” called Clarissa as she ran towards him. She cast an accusing eye at Prester John and Ulrik. “This is the help I went for. Now give me a hand.”

His fall and the fight had twisted Illyricus’ armor, making it difficult to remove. “Oh, do be careful,” moaned Illyricus. “I believe I broke my wing in all that. This silly armor of my father’s was way too big. I don’t know why I ever let you talk me into wearing it.”

“I thought you never crossed the river because of the curse!” snapped Ulrik.

“She can be most convincing,” he said, casting an eye towards the girl.

“You made quite the impression,” added Prester John, “Someone thought you were an angel of light.”

“Did they? How nice? Me, an angel of light. Hmm. I sort of like that image.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, dragon; lift your claw.” ordered Clarissa.

Standing in the midst of the ruin and debris of the battlefield, the victors sent their joyful alleluias of victory heavenward. Prester John went over to Ulrik and handed over his sword, stained with the battle’s blood, “This belongs in your hand, not mine. Never again will I touch it.” Then he joined the people from the abbey who had begun the long and slow process of inspecting each soldier still lying on the battlefield for signs of life. Each of the wounded was treated with compassion regardless of which side they had fought on. Some cried for help while others moaned their agonies in hopes of pity and care. The moans of the pirates and mercenaries were the saddest because they had been abandoned by their comrades at arms. Prester John, recognizing some of them, went and offered what prayers they would accept while the abbot, Christian, Cleopas and others did the same for the rest, leaving none without a kind word and, if open to it, a prayer.

Brother Salvador took on the heartbreaking task of deciding which of the wounded were most likely to survive, and which would never leave the battlefield. Some complained that the brother was blind to the identity of the wounded and that to the good brother and those who helped him, those lying upon the field were all treated the same.

Brother Salvador gave them a cold stare and said, “If you were torn, broken, and in pain, what would you have me do, let you groan yourself to death? Instead of gawking and complaining, go help bury the dead and learn from them how to live.” They turned, followed the brother’s admonition and joined those burying the dead where they had fallen.

By nightfall, the battlefield had been cleared, with the wounded in the care of Brother Salvador, Deaconess Rose, Edgar, and others from the abbey. The rest worked to bury the dead as quickly as possible, leaving the battlefield a graveyard of mounds and markers. Still, the work was not finished, for the living were not to be left without the words of comfort a funeral service would provide. When Harald had heard of plans for the service, he ordered his men to build a platform in the middle of the battlefield. At sunrise, the wounded were carefully moved to the site. Others arrived, villagers mixed with volunteers, families intermingled with families, and the women embraced each other for comfort and support. Many carried flowers. When the children tried to climb the grave mounds to get a better look, parents carefully moved them off so they might learn to respect the dead.

Abbot Peter took to the platform and began the service, reading psalms of hope and the Gospel of life. When he finished he looked through the crowd and nodded to the back. Prester John slowly made his way through the assembly. As he walked toward the platform, he looked into the crowd. Some he recognized immediately, including two of his former mercenary comrades, their wounds carefully bandaged. With each step the old role of warrior and battle leader sloughed off, and he stepped deeper and deeper into his new life of peacemaker.

As he walked, he fussed and fiddled with the brown robes and vestments borrowed from the Abbot until he climbed the platform. By the time he had climbed the 14 rungs to the top, he had ascended to his pastorate filled with a holy confidence. He looked out over the crowd and saw faces marked with joy and sadness because the battle against the Mage had been won but sad at the cost in lives and blood. The evil and death they had passed through touched everyone not only because of wounds sustained, limbs lost, the family and friends dead and buried on the battlefield but because of the terrifying evil they witnessed. Tears flowed charged with happiness and grief. The survivors yearned for healing and Prester John prayed that his words would begin the long, slow process. They looked to him as he stood atop the platform, not sure of what to expect. They had seen him on the battlefield—the warrior who led Ulrik’s army, who used his sword to kill and wound as many as possible, but now they saw that the warrior was gone. A new man had taken his place and this new man spoke to them:

“Greater love has no man than this: that a man lay down his life for his friends.” He paused, took a breath, and continued. “Surrounded by the pain and death of yesterday’s battle, it would be tempting to forget that this struggle took place because of love. Love brought all the fighters to this field, not only those who live but also those who lie in nearby graves. For some it was a selfish kind of love- a love of promised wealth, of death and destruction, and of power. This evil kind of love was the tool the Mage used to lure followers until he was destroyed by his own love of power.

“A different kind of love brought others to the field, a noble love of family and home, a love that fought for freedom and justice, a love that came to serve and if need be, to die. Such love, this beautiful and noble love, is a reflection, an image of the greater love that our Lord showed when he fought his battle against greed, enslavement, and wicked power. You know his battlefield, for many of you wear the symbol of it around your neck—the cross.

“Our Lord’s love for us took him to the battlefield of the cross to die and in his death he was buried, like our comrades, our fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons who lie so close at hand beneath the ground. But our comfort, our healing, doesn’t come from knowing that the Lord joined our brothers in death. Our hope comes from the Lord’s resurrection from that grave, freeing us from the sting of death. He lives and because he lives, these faithful will also rise from the grave free from the sting of death. And we will join them. Someday, a day only God knows, the graves will open and the dead will live free from death.

“Today we weep for our dead and we need to do this; there is no shame in it. But as we weep we see through our tears a time of hope and healing when our fallen will be with us again.”

In silence the people looked up at Prester John. The stillness was broken when someone began to sing, one voice singing for them all:

In peace and joy I now depart

At God’s disposing;

For full of comfort is my heart,

Soft reposing.

So the Lord hath promised me,

And death is but a slumber.

Prester John raised his arms and spoke the Benediction: “The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make his face to shine on you and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you peace.” The crowd slowly separated and moved among the graves, searching for the resting places of their loved ones to leave flowers as an offering of thanksgiving for the lives given up for them.

After Brother Salvador had moved the wounded to the village chapel, now converted a temporary hospital, he saw Illyricus dragging his wing. “Let me take a look at that wing,” said the brother, making his words more of a command than a request. The brother ordered him to lift his damaged wing. The dragon winced at the brother’s attempt. “I’ve never worked on a dragon before, but broken bones are broken bones, no matter what the size,” said the healer. With Clarissa’s aid the brother tried to stretch the wing out from the dragon’s body. Illyricus roared in pain, sending a ball of fire across the plain; fortunately, the fire burned itself out before causing damage. “That hurt,” complained Illyricus.

“It will hurt more if I can’t examine it.” growled the brother. They pulled it out again and at this, Illyricus only whelped, with a puff of black smoke signaling his displeasure. Edgar came to add his strength to Clarissa’s as they held the wing while Brother Salvador examined the length of the wing bones, talking to himself

“What’s he saying?” Illyricus asked Clarissa.

“How should I know? He’s the doctor; ask him.”

“Excuse me, Brother,” Illyricus said, “About my wing, sir; I was wondering, have you arrived at your diagnosis? I was hoping . . .”

“Does this hurt?” interrupted Brother Salvador as he reached deeply into the joint where the wing was attached to the body.

“Yes!” screamed Illyricus, jerking his wing out of the grasp of Edgar and Clarissa and crushing Brother Salvador within the wing’s folds. Clarissa struggled to pull the wing out while Edgar, under it, pulled out the brother.

“Troublesome patient,” he muttered. He dusted himself off, adjusted his robes, and walked to the dragon’s head and said, “Illyricus, that’s what they call you, isn’t it?

“Yes, for that’s my name, Illyricus Draconitis. I’m the fourth . . .”

“Illyricus,” the brother continued not paying attention to the dragon’s reply, “Your wing’s fine. Nothing broken with it as far as I can tell; it’s bruised and torn a bit, but it will heal, assuming dragons are like the rest of God’s creatures.”