by Thomas Sabel
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.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
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 ca
using 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.”
“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?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
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 ca
me, 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!”
