Legends of Luternia

by Thomas Sabel

  The rhythm of their trek ended when they neared the mountain, close to where the map’s label read, “Where the Wind is born.” Porter’s pack drooped because more than half of its contents had been consumed. He replaced the lost weight with sand, “To keep my balance,” he said. He pointed them to a path leading up the mountain, a path easily discerned from the base and he bade them farewell. He loaded his pipe, lit it, and headed back over the desert toward the abbey leaving puffs of smoke behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Prester John ignored Ulrik’s questions as they worked their way up the winding path, the teacher taking the lead through the narrows. Ulrik picked up on his teacher’s tense alertness and began to scan the vicinity for something—not sure what he was looking for. Occasionally, Prester John would bring them to a soundless halt so he could listen, as if he could draw out a warning hidden in the cracks and fissures of the rocks. He signaled for an early stop in a broad area surrounded by tall rocks. Ulrik unpacked the pony’s bags. A glimmer of metal caught by the late afternoon sun flashed out from under the pack. He reached for it when he was abruptly shouldered to the ground by this teacher. Landing hard in the dust, Ulrik looked up to Prester John, his shock turning to fear when he saw a dangerous look arising from his teacher: a cold, defensive stare of warning. Ulrik scuttled backwards in the dust, like a crab, to get away.

  Prester John’s expression turned from warning to anguish. He collapsed to his knees on the ground by the fire, face buried in his hands and he cried out, “The abbot ordered me to bring it. I didn’t want the accursed thing. I never wanted to see it again. Forgive me God; forgive me Ulrik; forgive me . . .” Darkness fell on the inconsolable man languishing in the dust.

  “What have we here?” sneered a voice from the darkness, beyond the range of the fire’s small circle of light. Prester John broke from his mourning, threw a fistful of dry stubble into the fire and backed out of the quick-flamed blaze of light. “Move back,” hissed Ulrik’s teacher under his breath, “get out of the light.” Ulrik obeyed.

  “Too late for that, I know that trick. We’ve been watching you for some time. I know only the two of you are here—poor lonely travelers, all alone in a great big dangerous desert. We thought we’d come and offer protection.” Laughter filled with hate and bloodlust broke out from all sides coming from men who lived only to satisfy callous appetites.

  “Push them back into the light,” the voice from the darkness commanded. The sound of horses pawing and stamping the ground drove Ulrik and Prester John back to the fire. The campfire’s light revealed encircling horses and the men hard, vicious, and devoid of all mercy. Prester John’s body tensed; he transfigured from pastor and teacher to warrior, as long-buried memories resurfaced. He started to edge closer to the pony.

  “Let’s take a closer look at our new friends,” said the leader as he jumped from his horse and swaggered close to the light. “A pretty boy and a very ugly man.” The others laughed again, their laughter strangling out the courage remaining in Ulrik. The leader went up to Ulrik and inspected him from all angles, “Pretty indeed, almost as pretty as the boys of Chalendera; just a bit of peach-fuzz not worthy of a barber’s attention. But maybe I can help.” He pulled a dagger from his belt and held the blade against Ulrik’s cheek. Thrusting his face into Ulrik’s, with a diabolical gleam in his eyes, he said, “My shaving skills aren’t keen. I may nick his precious skin.” He spoke loudly, getting the desired rise from the others. Ulrik winced when the knife sliced his cheek. “Look at that. I nicked my customer.”

  “Leave him alone!” bellowed Prester John. The leader pivoted to face him.

  “And who’s this? A holy man by the looks of his clothes.” He moved closer to Prester John, “Curious, his clothes speak of holiness but this face tells a different story. “Boy,” he commanded Ulrik. “Throw more fuel to the fire. I want to take a good look at this curiosity.” Ulrik, holding a hand to his bleeding cheek, obeyed, feeling all the while a coward. He threw dry brush on the fire, and the area blazed into a painful brightness.

  “Priest,” the leader said, spitting out the word. “Priest, you look familiar. There’s something about you. But I doubt if we ever met. The last holy man I met was helped into heaven with my gentle assistance.” The men laughed. “Your face, that scar. Where have I seen it?” Prester John tried to move out of the light.

  “Dare move again and the boy dies,” The tightening of a bow behind Ulrik revealed the arrow’s target.

  “That scar, your skin, the way you stand. You weren’t always a holy man were you?” he taunted. Prester John didn’t flinch. “Exactly where was it that we met?” The leader began stalking around him; then he suddenly broke into a roar that echoed in the darkness. “You’ve shaved your beard and cut your hair!” Gerlach, come here and take a look.” One of the men dismounted and stood next to the leader. “Take a good look at the priest. Add a great beard and a mound of hair. Use your imagination, you oaf.”

  “Why that’s . . .” Gerlach began to say.

  “John, the Deathmonger—exactly.” Prester John flinched. “So, I’m right. Don’t you recognize your old comrade, Dragomere?” A wicked laugh rose once more from the leader. “Boy,” he addressed Ulrik, “do you know who your holy man is? He’s none other than John the Deathmonger, one time leader of this band. He was the vilest, the most hated, the most feared man in the region. Should I tell the boy all about you, John?”

  Prester John took a step toward him.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve been too bashful to tell the boy? Boy, this holy man is far from what you think. What I’ve seen him do would give you nightmares for the rest of your life. One time there was this young girl . . .”

  “Enough!” Prester John screamed and leaped toward Ulrik, knocking him down as the arrow whizzed past into the fire. With great agility Ulrik’s teacher flipped back onto his feet, lunged toward their pony, grabbed the sword, and stood over the prince, protecting him.

  “Now that’s more like it.” sneered Dragomere. “I was wondering when the John I knew so well would return.” He pulled his own sword from the scabbard and lunged. Prester John parried but didn’t counter the attack. “What’s the matter, holy man, lost your lust for blood?”

  “I don’t want your blood, Dragomere. I want you to leave us be. Mount your horse and go. We’ve nothing of value.”

  “I’m not looking for riches,” said Dragomere. “Holy men are notoriously poor. But you can provide us with something we’ve missed during weeks of roaming these damned foothills—entertainment. We’re bored beyond belief; we’ve been fighting among ourselves, and now here you are- our sport. Like an answer to prayer.” The men laughed at his joke. Dragomere continued, “Here’s my sporting proposition: you fight me. You win, we go. I win, the boy is ours.”

  “And if I don’t agree?” said Prester John.

  “You know the rules. You made them up for us, or did you forget? Accept the proposition or die.” Dragomere motioned and Ulrik heard the creak of many bows being stretched.

  “My rules?” asked Prester John.

  “Your rules. Like in the old days.”

  “Done. Raise the fire.”

  From the darkness men walked toward the fire, a surprisingly large number of men. Torches were set at the corners and along the sides marking out an arena. Prester John stood at one end while Dragomere stood at the other. Two men came to Ulrik, pulled him to his feet and pinned him between them. With hungry eyes they stared down at Ulrik, his heart beating violently. He silently prayed the Lord would protect his teacher.

  Prester John prepared. He stretched and clumsily worked the sword. The men guffawed when he dropped it with rumblings of “No sport” and “Too easy, Dragomere.” Dragomere stepped into the arena and took his place.

  “John, has your religion replaced your skill. I was hoping for a real challenge, like the last time.”

  Prester John paid no attention to the taunts but dropped to his knees in prayer. Drago
mere impatiently paced the arena. John looked to the heavens, called, “Amen,” and rose to his feet. Again he swung the sword, this time with deft skill. He and the sword became one when he stepped into the arena.

  “Thank you, Lord, for hearing his prayer,” prayed Ulrik under his breath.

  Dragomere attacked at once, searching out a clumsy weakness, but Prester John met each threat, deflecting the attacker’s blade. An opening appeared but Prester John refused to press the advantage. In disgust, Dragomere dropped his sword and moved in, taunting him with, “Kill me, Holy Man. Send me to hell.”

  Prester John kept his blade in readiness, waiting for the next attack. “I’m not going to kill you, Dragomere. I no longer carry the hatred that you hold in your heart.”

  “What do you bring, then? Love? Don’t make me laugh.” He came at Prester John again, only to be deflected away.

  “Yes, love, and peace for your soul.”

  “My soul! Men like us have no souls. You, of all men, should know that. Didn’t we give you your name, Deathmonger? Are you so quick to forget?”

  Prester John’s guard dropped at the last comment; Dragomere saw the opening and launched a forceful attack, breaking in and wounding his opponent’s arm. Prester John looked at the blood oozing forth. At the sight of his blood, he launched a merciless attack with such ferocity driving his opponent back to the edge of the arena. As Dragomere neared the edge, bows were drawn against him because any man driven from the arena was fair game to the first arrow.

  “So you haven’t forgotten how to fight, have you? Where is the peace in your soul now, John Deathmonger?” Dragomere leaped back into the center. “Here, finally, is the old Deathmonger I once knew. Let’s have it out at last.”

  The two clashed, swords flashing in the torchlight, neither man gaining nor giving. Prester John’s wound oozed but he ignored the pain. Exhausted by the continual attacks, each stood, breathing hard, sword at the ready.

  “There is more to life than hate-filled destruction and death, Dragomere. Much more,” said Prester John gasping for breath.

  “Oh, look who’s talking! You’ve turned soft and silly. What else is there? We drink, fight, plunder, and then die. You’ve seen the eyes of the dead after we’re through with them. Tell me your lies about there being something more.”

  “No lies. The truth, the truth of hope, of peace, and yes, truth about what you want more than anything else: love.”

  “Love! Damn love!” snarled Dragomere and he attacked Prester John wildly, blindly, to obliterate not only his opponent but also all love from the face of the earth. Prester John lunged and with a quick turn of his blade, broke Dragomere’s grip and sword flew out of his hand.

  “Kill me now! It’s your right and my desire. End my life, damn you!” demanded Dragomere.

  “No, Dragomere. No longer will I bring death. God has called me to bring life to the world, especially to you. I know your heart and what you’ve done. You’re not beyond the sweep of His hope and forgiveness.” Prester John drove his sword into the ground and weaponless, stepped toward Dragomere.

  A cruel light flashed in Dragomere’s eyes. He leaped himself over Prester John, grabbed his sword from the ground and tried to skewer his opponent in the back. Old reflexes revived Prester John. He leaped aside, pivoted, and rearmed himself to meet the threat. This time, he not only disarmed Dragomere, but drove him to the ground, with the point of his sword tickling the hollow of his opponent’s neck.

  “One quick move and I could give you what you seek, but I won’t. You’ll live and become the object of my prayer, Dragomere,” The man on the ground winced as Prester John continued. “I’ll pray for you, and all your men as well. I’ll pray that the Lord whom I serve will bring you to the light of truth. God has forgiveness for you and all your evil deeds. The guilt you hide behind your mask of cruel bravery can be taken away.”

  As John was speaking, the man on Ulrik’s right loosened his grip and began to listen.

  “By your code, once my code, I’m giving you back your life and this one command you must obey. Leave us now. Mount your horses and leave the boy and me alone. And by the code I now live by, may God go with you and lead you to the truth.” Prester John stepped aside allowing Dragomere to rise.

  “You’ve bested me this time, Holy Man. We’ll go; but don’t waste prayers to your weak and pitiful god on us. We need no such god. We make our own. Mount up men; leave them to the desert.”

  All quickly mounted but one, the one who had been standing at the right of Ulrik. Seeing that he lagged behind, Dragomere called out, “What’s the matter, Kasimer? A guilty conscience? Been listening too much to the driveling fairy tales of the Holy Man? Then stay with him. You’re no good to us after you’ve fallen under his spell of peace, hope, and such nonsense.”

  Kasimer moved closer to Prester John and whispered, “Is it true what you said?”

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  “But I’ve seen so much, done so much. I can’t believe your god would want me.” said Kasimer.

  “He wants you so much he came to claim you through his own death. Like a faithful comrade, he died for you.”

  “Then there is hope?” Before Prester John could answer, an arrow flew in from the dark, striking Kasimer in the chest, collapsing him to the ground.

  “That’s one soul you won’t get, Holy Man!” Dragomere’s foul voice echoed off the hills as he and the others rode off.

  Prester John went to Kasimer and cradled the dying man in his arms. “Tell me it’s true,” said Kasimer, his breathing getting shallow.

  “It’s true.”

  Prester John commanded Ulrik, “Bring me some water. Now!” Ulrik remained transfixed. “Now, boy. I need it now.” The prince fetched the canteen off the pony, handing it to his teacher.

  “Kasimer, can you still hear me?” The dying man groaned his yes

  “Kasimer, do you believe in God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit?”

  “Is it true?” he gasped.

  “Yes, it’s true.”

  “I believe.”

  Prester John poured the water over his head, “I baptize you, Kasimer, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

  In the shadowy light of the fire Kasimer’s face was transformed from one of pain, anguish, and worry to one of peace and rest. He breathed deeply and sighed, “Yes,” and died. John looked away to where Dragomere had ridden into the desert, “You’re wrong. Hell won’t get this one.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Following Prester John’s instruction, Ulrik dug a shallow grave in the hard soil, his hands blistered and bleeding from shoveling and moving rocks. He watched his teacher prepare Kasimer’s body for burial. Evidently, Prester John had performed this duty many times before.

  “Ulrik, give me a hand.” Ulrik brushed the dust from his hands, walked over, but stopped when he saw the corpse. The peace in Kasimer’s face was gone, replaced with a cold, lifelessness. No peace, no anger, no hope, no desperation; nothing except the chill of the day’s air.

  “Help me carry him to the grave.” Ulrik hesitated. He had never touched a dead man. The coldness of Kasimer’s skin shivered his whole body. No longer skin but a cold shell encasing, muscle and bone. He reluctantly grabbed Kasimer’s feet, tucking them under his arms to gain a better grip, and lifted. The body was heavier than he’d expected. While Ulrik huffed and heaved, Prester John lifted the body with ease. How many times had his teacher done this before, Ulrik wondered? How much death had this Deathmonger seen?

  They laid the body on their spare blanket, wrapped it and placed it carefully in the grave. Then prince and pastor worked side by side to place a thick layer of stones over the body as a memorial cairn. Prester John concluded the rite by praying:

  “May God the Father, who created this body, may God the Son, who by his blood redeemed this body, may God the Holy Spirit, who by Holy Baptism sanctified this body to be his temple, keep these remains to the day of resurrection o
f all flesh. Amen”

  “Prester John . . .” Prester John looked at him; the lines in his face had grown deeper and the scar across his face more pronounced. “What . . . what happened last night? Who were those men?” he asked.

  Prester John took his time in responding, “The old were haunting the new.” They began the long climb from the foothills to the mountain pass and Prester John spoke of the life he had led before becoming a pastor. The life he described was one of adventure and daring, but more than that, it was a selfish life of battles waged for riches, not honor; of murder and theft, of treachery and betrayal. His life had been cold and brutal, and Prester John told it, as if he were describing someone else’s life. His voice changed as he let his cold past descend into the story.

  “We were on a raid. I was badly hurt,” he pointed to the scar on his face. “We entered a village—not much of a place, really. A few houses and barns, and we demanded help. The first house shut its doors and pulled the shutters closed. In retaliation for their unfriendly welcome, we burned the house and the people inside to the ground. As the house was burning, an old man and his daughter—she would have been only a few years older than you, Ulrik—came out from the plainest of the houses. Dragomere commanded them to be off. They said they had come to help. He tried to drive them away, but they wouldn’t budge. When they saw the bandages on my face they walked over to me. I was so weak from shock and loss of blood that I nearly fell off my horse. The girl held the horse’s head while the old man helped me down. They brought me into their house, and I was placed on the only bed there. I have no idea how long I slept, but when I woke, I found the girl sitting beside the bed muttering. I thought she must have been mad or not quite right in her mind. I learned later she was praying for me. For the next week she and her father cared for me, sharing what little they had.” His voice began to trail off. He took a deep breath and continued.