Legends of Luternia (22 page)

“There’s more, isn’t there?” Illyricus asked.

“I’m afraid so. As nearly as I can tell, the wing bone’s socket is shattered, probably broken during the fall. All the muscles and tendons have been torn apart; that must have happened when you wrestled the scorpion. You might gain some movement of your wing, but you’ll never fly again. I’ll give you an infusion of poppy-husk tea for the pain.” said Brother Salvador.

The dragon looked at him and then at Clarissa who moved close to his neck and put her arm around it.

“Oh, such a bother,” said the dragon, taking a deep breath and sighing a puff of white smoke. He looked at Clarissa and said, “You needn’t cry about it. It’s really not that bad after all. To tell the truth, the flying business was always a bit of a chore, and I was never all that good at it.” Despite his words, tears fell from his eye and set the grass afire under his head, causing the others to move quickly to stomp the fire out before it spread.

Using one of the abbey’s tents torn into long strips, Brother Salvador, Edgar, and Clarissa bound Illyricus’ damaged wing to his body. Once finished, the brother stepped back from his work, smiled, and rejoined Deaconess Rose and the other healers.

Cleopas called for the restoration of the custom of serving a large meal following a funeral with everyone providing what they could. The surprise of the evening was the feast of roast pork and lamb Clarissa prepared; Illyricus provided the fire. “How she keeps talking me into such escapades is beyond me,” he complained.

The meal restored their spirits in ways the memorial service couldn’t. Folks talked of the fallen, soldiers told stories, and all had some tale to tell. Slowly, the sound of laughter mingled with tears of mourning a sign that the long work of healing had begun.

Cooking duties completed, Illyricus settled between Abbot Peter and Prester John, hoping to hear some deep theological conversation.

“Prester John has been bragging about your extensive library,” said the abbot to the dragon.

“It’s not that extensive; it only takes up a single room,” said Illyricus

“That room is larger than the narthex and nave combined,” interjected Prester John.

Abbot Peter continued, “And, Illyricus, he tells me that you can read both Hebrew and Greek, yes?” The dragon nodded. “Let me get to the point,” said the abbot, “Do you think you could teach others?”

Illyricus cocked his head and looked at him, not sure of what the abbot was saying.

“Let me explain,” continued the abbot. “Since the dark times came upon us, we’ve lost our language teachers and we are in danger of losing the sacred languages as well. With your help, we could return to the original languages of our sacred texts.”

The dragon remained confused.

“Illyricus, would you be willing to teach others the languages you have worked so hard to master? I ask you this as a fellow believer. Would you be willing to be our Biblical languages teacher? You needn’t leave your home. We’d send the students to you, along with the staff to help take care of them. Your sole responsibility would be teaching.”

A puff of grey smoke began to rise from the dragon’s nostrils; then the smoke changed to red, then green, and finally to a deep blue so thick that the abbot, Prester John, and Illyricus disappeared from sight. When the abbot began to cough, Illyricus released a strong blast of clean air to blow the cloud away.

“Abbot Peter, I don’t know what to say. You’ve left me speechless. You would offer such an honor . . . of course I would. I feel so honored, sir. Where would I start? Should I begin with the Greek? That’s a tad easier, or at least that is how I found it. Merely the basics first, don’t you think? The Gospel of John is easiest so we should begin there, or would it be better to start with something more challenging. Would that be all right?”

The next morning all able-bodied soldiers set out for Castle Åræthi. Ulrik and his soldiers went armed and wary. Ulrik, now bearing Prester John’s sword, led the march with his teacher at his right and Barty on his left. Illyricus, Abbot Peter, and Clarissa followed. Harald led the soldiers, all marching proudly, honor restored.

The first site they passed was the Mage’s encampment. The pirates and mercenaries had abandoned the field. Carcasses of meat remained rotting on spits over dead fires. Trash lay where it had been dropped, the hum of blow flies rising with the fetid smell. Illyricus looked at the shambles with disgust and began to inhale, one enormous breath at a time, each larger than the last until he began to inflate. Everyone moved away from him and stared with amazement. Suddenly, a great flame erupted from his mouth, incinerating the entire encampment, burning it clean to the bare soil. Then he collapsed onto the ground. “Oh dear,” he said between gasps of air. “I never knew I quite had that in me. But somebody had to do something about the tawdry mess.” He continued to pant, his great green tongue hanging out like that of a dog.

“Are you going to be all right?” asked Clarissa with an unfamiliar tenderness.

“Yes, I believe so, but I believe that my inner fire has just about been all used up. Some dragon I’ve turning out to be—I can neither fly nor blow fire.”

“Some dragon indeed,” she said, smiling at him.

Ulrik looked at the Mage’s former encampment, now a blackened stain covering several acres. “The grass will grow back,” said Abbot Peter. “By next year only a memory will remain, and that too will fade.”

Ulrik looked at him. “I hope not. I never want to forget the evil that the Mage brought to the kingdom for fear it might return.”

Illyricus regained enough strength to continue the march to the castle. Despite the longer road taken around the scorched area, they soon caught sight of the castle. From the distance, all appeared the same as when Ulrik and Edgar had left it, but when they drew near, the damage and neglect saddened their hearts. The castle had aged ten years for each of the six months they had been gone. Holes appeared in the roof where several of the slate shingles had fallen out of place. Some of the parapet stones were working themselves out of the mortar, prepared to fall to the ground below. Oaken storm shutters hung loosely, a few held in place by a single hinge that squealed against the wind. Debris left by the Mage’s army littered the grounds surrounding the castle, picked at by a flock of crows that flew off as the victors approached. A mangy dog snarled at them for interrupting its easy meal before skulking off. The swarms of flies pestered them as they drew near.

The closer they came, the worse the castle appeared. Once a strong fortress ready to forestall any attack, now it looked weak, old, and shabby. The enormous twin halves of the gatehouse door, crafted of heavy hornbeam and shod in iron, so carefully balanced that a child could open and close them, hung off their hinges, uselessly open. While Ulrik, Edgar, and Barty were so taken aback that they had trouble entering, Illyricus cautiously nosed past the gatehouse.

“Foul spawn of Satan! The Lord is at my right, the angels at my left, and you have no power over me. Get out Leviathan!” screamed a woman from within. “Begone from here! In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit go back to the hell that gave you birth.” An enormous rolling pin came flying out, past the dragon’s head. Then he let out a yelp as an iron skillet found his nose as the target. He quickly backed out of the gateway, attempting to dodge a third pan which bounced harmlessly off his side. “Demon dragon, you have no power here. The Lord is protecting this place now,” she screamed as she chased Illyricus out of the castle.

“Helga?” said Ulrik, looking at the disheveled and wild-eyed woman holding a large kitchen knife in ready defense.

She looked at him, blinking through bleary eyes, pushed back her disheveled hair and said, “Ulrik? Is that you?” She lowered the blade and moved towards him. “We heard you were dead, but that’s not true is it?” She dropped the knife, letting it fall to the ground, and opened her arms to him. He rushed in and enveloped her in a powerful hug. “Don’t squeeze so hard,” she said. “You’ve gotten so strong, and you must have grown two inches. I have to look up to you now!”

“Helga, Edgar’s here too,” said Ulrik. She looked at him in his flowing white robes and enormous straw hat. He went to her and removed his hat. At first she blanched at his appearance, wondering what had happened to his face.

“Edgar got burned in the desert, but am fine now,” Edgar said, accepting her embrace.

“My two boys are finally home,” she said. She was about to say something else when she spied Barty. “But what about him,” she said, pointing at him.

“He’s changed, Helga; you could say he’s been reborn,” said Ulrik.

“And what about . . . what about that,” she said, pointing to Illyricus who was rubbing his sore snout with the back of his foreclaw

The dragon took a step forward, “You must be the wonderful Helga, whom I’ve heard so much about. Let me introduce myself. I am Illyricus Draconitis, baptized believer, and ready to serve you,” he said, bowing elegantly.

“And you’re full of hot air,” she said.

“Not as much as I used to be, not as much as I used to be,” he said, as everyone but Helga laughed. When Ulrik explained the dragon’s loss, she added her smile.

“I’m glad you’re all home at last. But we can’t dilly dally about; there’s much more to be done. I don’t know how much longer his majesty can last.”

“My father! He’s still alive? I thought the Mage killed him.”

“Not as long as Rupert or I had breath in us. Yes, he’s alive, but barely. I don’t know what’s been keeping him going; maybe knowing you were coming home.”

As she led them into the castle, she explained that after Ulrik and Edgar had left, the Mage’s magic cast an even darker pall over the castle, beginning with the tower and spreading outward. “It was like the night had arrived without the hope of a dawn,” she said. “Then he had that pen out there built for that creature of his, nasty thing it was. That was about the time the mercenaries and pirates showed up. They crept into nearly every nook and cranny of the castle, taking what they wanted and spoiling the rest. The only safe place was my kitchen, thanks be to God. Then the Mage put that scum to guarding the king. Guarding my foot! They kept everybody away from his Majesty. Not even Rupert was allowed in. That’s when Rupert and I cooked up a plan to get the king down here. First, we set up a bed for him in the pantry, the best we could. Then we went for him. Rupert knows the castle bettern’ anybody alive, including a few passages no one else remembered. That was how we managed to sneak his Majesty down here. We had to carry him, and the poor man was little more than skin and bones. My good broth and bread has helped change that a bit.”

As she spoke, she picked her way through the debris spread about the courtyard. By the time they reached the kitchen, Ulrik was surprised to find that even the kitchen had been affected by the contamination. The contents of the pantry had been pulled out and hastily stacked on every bare surface that could be found. The pots, pans, knives, and utensils lay scattered everywhere. Chaos replaced the order Ulrik remembered. Helga went to the pantry, knocked twice, paused, and knocked once more.

The door opened cautiously to reveal Rupert peering through the crack; then he opened the door wide, exclaiming, “Prince Ulrik! You’re home!” From deeper within the pantry a pained groan arose, silencing everyone in the kitchen. Rupert stepped into the kitchen and motioned the prince into the pantry, “He’s been waiting for you, speakin’ your name. That must be all that has kept his heart beating.” Ulrik looked to Prester John and the teacher went to his side; Ulrik led the way into the narrow pantry.

A single candle placed in the niche that once held the Bible illuminated the storage room now converted to the royal chamber. King Aelfric lay on the old campaign bed that nearly filled the narrow space between the walls. Ulrik knelt by his father’s side.

“Your Majesty?” Ulrik whispered. “It’s me, Ulrik. I’m home.”

The king turned his head towards the prince and groaned, “Ulrik? My son?”

“Yes, Father, it’s me.”

“Home . . .” said the king as a sliver of a smile eased onto his face. With great effort, the king raised his hand and cradled Ulrik’s face, catching a tear that slid down Ulrik’s cheek. Their eyes met, as for the first and last time.

Aelfric’s hand fell from Ulrik’s cheek and grasped the cross hanging loosely around his son’s neck. He pulled the prince close to his lips. “Ulrik,” he gasped, “forgive.”

“I forgive you, Father. Rest now.”

The king released the cross as his hand collapsed onto the cot. Ulrik took the hand between his own hands and felt it go cold as life and the king breathed his last.

“Into your hands, Almighty God, we commend his spirit,” prayed Prester John before he eased himself out of the pantry, leaving Ulrik to grieve in private. When Rupert saw the prince come out of the pantry he knew what had happened. Rupert then solemnly declared, “The king is dead; long live the king.”

Thomas Sabel’s short stories, poetry, and reflections have been published in the online journal
Million Stories
, the journal
riverrun
,
Tipton Poetry Review, wordriver,
the
Journal of Pastoral Care and Counseling
and others. He teaches writing at Indiana University-Purdue University at Fort Wayne, philosophy at IVY Tech Community College, and preaches at St. Paul Lutheran in Otis, Indiana. He is currently working on a collection of poems as well as novel about the ancient mound city of Cahokia.
Legends of Luternia: The Prince Decides
is his first novel.

He lives in Fort Wayne with his wife and two sons.

Thomas’ poetry posted on his blog,
Subtexts on Life, etc
. at
thosasabel.blogspot.com