When everyone emerged from the chapel and went into the village, it was far into the night, but they realized a new day had come. With the rising sun the villagers shed their robes and went about their business openly, women fetching water at the well, men preparing to restore the town. A group of boys who took the opportunity of newfound freedom to run through the streets came running up to Cleopas who talked with Ulrik, Prester John, and Christian.
“We know where they are,” they said, out of breath from their running and the excitement of the day. “The spies—we found them. We left Narve to keep an eye on them. Come on.” The boys turned, leading the others across the village to the abandoned windmill. When they got there, the boys ran along the hedgerow calling for Narve in low voices, “Narve, Narve.” No Narve. The biggest boy called loudly, “Narve, where are you?” By this time the villagers had the mill surrounded. The door to the mill moved on its one remaining hinge.
Narve poked his small head around the corner and then ducked back into the mill, trying to pull the door shut. The biggest boy went up to the door, grabbed it with both hands and jerked it off the hinge, letting it crash to the ground. “Narve, get out here before I bash you one,” he threatened.
Cleopas put his hand on the bigger boy’s shoulder and pulled him away from the doorway, “There’s no need for that. There’s been enough of that kind of talk already.” Christian went to the door’s threshold, sat on his haunches and gently called, “Narve, it’s me, Christian. Remember me? It was a long time ago but I used to tell you stories, remember? Everything will be all right. Why don’t you come out and tell us what happened? I’ll protect you.” The villagers watched and waited for Narve, a boy quite small for his age, to slowly emerge.
“Mr. Christian, you won’t let him beat me up, will you?” When Narve saw security in Christian’s eyes he came out into the light. The villagers formed a circle around Narve and Christian. Being safe from the other boys as well as the center of attention emboldened the small boy. “They ran off, both of them. I was told to watch them and watch I did. I even tried to follow them until they went into the woods. They said they needed to make a report, or something. But then I got afraid because I knew the others wanted to catch them and hand them over to the prince for a reward ‘cause princes always give rewards, they say. That’s why I hid.” He looked up at the surrounding crowd, sought out Ulrik with his eyes and asked, “Can I still have my reward?”
Everyone looked to the prince for the answer to Narve’s question. Ulich didn’t know what to say. He looked at the boy, only four years separated them but Narve saw him as an adult, a royal prince who came from a distant land; a prince who rewarded faithful subjects. He knew that many waited to hear what kind of answer he would give to an eager boy. He tried to remember how his father had rewarded loyalty before the illness came. Ulrik called Narve over to him and commanded the boy to kneel. Ulrik placed his hand on the boy’s head. “Narve,” he tried to announce but his voice cracked, causing twitters among the villagers. Prester John coughed loudly bringing silence. “Narve,” Ulrik said, this time in a voice clear and determined. “You have been faithful to me when you could have fled. You stayed at your post despite your fear and made an honest report. For this I name you “Friend of the Realm” and to you shall my door always be open.” Ulrik stepped back and looked to his mentor for approval. Prester John nodded. Narve stood, pulled himself to his full height and strutted past the bigger boys.
Barty moved to Ulrik’s side, leaned in and whispered, “Friend of the Realm? I never heard of that title before. Starting something new already?”
“It was the first thing that came to mind. I didn’t know what else to do,” Ulrik whispered back.
“I don’t know what you two are whispering about,” said Prester John, “but with those spies on the run, the Mage will hear what has happened here sooner than I would like.”
A taller boy rushed to them and reported that two men were coming toward the village from the direction of the castle. “What about my reward,” the boy asked. Cleopas stepped in, “Reward? For doing what you should be doing all along? Get on with you.”
The two men were soldiers in ragged uniforms of the castle, hungry, and bewildered. They straggled in, bringing news about the castle. “We had to get out of that place. Evil it had become, plain evil. We were the last soldiers left, just the two of us. The Mage’s own scum showed up and drove off the others. Harald was trying to keep the troops together, I think. Not sure why we hung around.”
“The Mage’s taken full control of the place,” said the second.
“Except for the kitchen,” the first interrupted, “Rupert’s holed up in there with the old cook; how she hangs on is beyond me. It’s like something is protecting her—strange it is.”
“Amen to that, as my grandmother would say. Like I was saying, we had to go. I know soldiers aren’t supposed to desert their king and all, but we had no choice especially after we saw what happened to old Geoffrey.”
“He wasn’t quick enough in following the Mage’s orders, so he was taken to that new pen at the bottom of the wizard’s tower. Chucked him in there and all that came out were his boots. Don’t know what’s in there but we weren’t going to find out.”
They learned that the wizard had been busy since Ulrik had left, gathering his own army of mercenaries and pirates, as well as building a strange pen for his new pet, as the Mage called it. The soldiers didn’t have any new information about the king but presumably he was still alive.
Ulrik, at the advice of his mentor, called a council meeting with Barty, and Cleopas to form a plan. Seeing how hopeless the people had become, thinking he was dead and the Mage in full control, he asked Christian to go through the countryside and use the abbot’s network of eyes and ears to let the people know he was very much alive and would not allow Mage to have his evil way unopposed.
The presence of the prince and his allies generated new courage in the villager’s hearts. The only one unmoved by all the events was the old man who had kicked Ulrik awake after his first night in the village. When he learned the object of his foot was a crown prince, he let out a great, “Gee-ruff” and went back into his house, the dog following at his heel.
Cleopas called the villagers together, telling them their hiding days were over but now, they were in greater danger than before. Together, the villagers decided to first restore the barnlike building to its proper use as their village church. They began by repainting it, inside and out. The clapboard siding went from gray to a bright white, like a beacon shining forth. Inside, the walls were painted a serene blue. The altar was taken out of hiding and placed above the trapdoor. Candelabras were taken from all but forgotten closets and polished until the silver shone like a bright full moon in winter. Prester John led the rededication service to tears of thankfulness.
Ulrik thoughts turned from the village to the kingdom so he consulted his map. Now the village, labeled “Fastholm,” appeared clearly and distinctly on the scroll. “There’s something else,” commented Prester John. “Look here.” East of the village the image of two crossed swords appeared.
“An old battlefield?” wondered the prince.
“Or one that will yet be fought upon.”
As Christian did his work, word of hope spread. Folks from many different parts of the realm started arriving at the village, some seeking help and others offering help. One family of five, barely alive, had recently escaped the Mage’s men in search of “taxes” and had spent the past week in open fields. Some appeared ready to fight like Sir Maximilian, an aged knight, who claimed to have known Ulrik’s grandfather and proclaimed, “I may be old but I’m not dead.” He proved his liveliness with a display of swordsmanship equal to that of Prester John’s.
One afternoon a short man and his even smaller wife eagerly approached Ulrik and bowed before him. Ulrik urged them to stand upright. “Your majesty, please, tell us how our Nathan is doing?” asked the man.
“Nathan?” asked Ulrik.
“Surely you know him; he lived with you at the Castle Åræthi. Three years ago some men from the castle came seeking apprentices for the king’s advisor. Nathan was always a bright boy, but he had no future on our poor farm. We were told he would live at court and learn the ways of wisdom and power. Nathan was smallish then, but he must have grown since.” the man said.
Ulrik remembered the boy who wore the hand-me-down robe that dragged in the dirt, but how could he tell them what the Mage did with such apprentices? He called Prester John over and then, as gently as he could, told them what he knew. The boy’s mother collapsed into Prester John’s arms while the father began to scream and howl before running out into the fields. His anguish could be heard for a mile. “Hayden, come back,” his wife called.
For two nights the man wailed so loudly that sleep was impossible. When he returned, he carried a rough wooden club in his hand with bits of sharpened flint worked into the cracks in the wood, and his face set as hard and sharp as the shards in his war club. “I want to fight,” he announced, and he joined the other recruits training in the common meadow near the village.
“Watch out for him,” warned Prester John. “He doesn’t want to fight; he wants to die and take as many with him as he can. I’ve seen it before.”
Ulrik consulted the map each morning. The battlefield’s image grew crisp, and an indistinct image of an encampment on the far side appeared. Little time remained, a few days at most. He and Prester John toured the recruit’s compound.
“I’ve seen worse looking armies, but I wish we had more men with real fighting experience. Old Max tires out too quickly,” said Prester John, pointing to the old knight napping under a tree with sword in hand.
“Is that the mercenary or the pastor talking?” asked Ulrik.
“And is this the crown prince or my first student asking?” replied Prester John. They both laughed. The sound of their laughter brought a sharp scowl from Hayden who kept practicing with his club, smashing whatever bits of rotten fruit he could find.
“The battle’s a few days off, if I’m reading Nagel’s map correctly,” said Ulrik.
Prester John stood with his arms crossed over his chest as he studied the soldiers and said, “Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but our trust is in the name of the Lord.”
“That must be the pastor speaking,” said the prince.
The dust cloud rising over the Mage’s encampment gave the first signal that the battle would soon be upon them. Prester John, at Ulrik’s pleading, took command, inspecting weapons, issuing orders, and maintaining discipline. He formed their volunteers in four squads. Sir Maximilian led the central squad with the most experienced fighters. Cleopas took charge of the squad on the right made up of the villagers. Barty commanded the left-hand squad made up of the stragglers who brought their own weapons. The fourth squad, made up of unarmed volunteers, was to wait in the rear with the orders that when an armed man fell, one of them was to rush in, pick up the weapon, and keep fighting.
Prester John pulled Ulrik to one side. “Ulrik,” he said privately, “I don’t know what the Mage has for an army, but I know his is better than this one—old swords, clubs, farm flails and pitchforks, a few hunting bows. I don’t . . .”
“And I don’t either,” said Clarissa busting in on them. “I’ve been watching you two play prince and soldier long enough. This scrap heap of an army of yours won’t last a minute.”
“What would you have us do? Give up?” asked Ulrik. His question went unanswered as she turned and ran westward out of the village. “I never thought of you as a coward who would run away,” he called out.
“I’m going to get help” she yelled back to him.
“Where?” he called, but she was out of earshot.
He looked at the collection of weapons and the people who carried them, and then at himself. Maybe he was only playing prince. He turned and faced the future battlefield and realized how hopeless it appeared.
“Uley! Uley!” called a familiar voice, shattering his spell of despondency. Edgar ran through the village toward him, his white robes catching the breeze and his wide-brimmed hat flapping on his head. Behind him came Abbot Peter, leading, with Christian beside him, both looking at home in brown robes, as did a great many abbey folk. Edgar scooped up the prince in his arms and spun him around. “Edgar came to help his Uley!” Their commotion brought Barty running, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw Edgar.
“Edgar, is that you under that hat?” he exclaimed.
“Barty!” Edgar, not letting go of Ulrik, picked up Barty as well. Even though Barty had heard of his friend’s injuries, he couldn’t keep from looking at Edgar’s disfigurement. Edgar noticed and said, “That’s OK, Barty. Maybe I should grow a big beard like yours.” Edgar laughed, set them both down and gave Barty’s beard a strong tug.
“Move back a bit, Edgar,” said Abbot Peter as he hurried up to them. “I know you’re glad to see your friend, but others want to see him as well.” The abbot turned to Ulrik and said, “I know you need fighters, Ulrik, but you need healers and peacemakers too. We haven’t come to fight but to pray and give help and comfort to the wounded.”
Looking over the large group following the abbot, Ulrik said, “Did you bring the whole abbey?”
“Nearly everyone. The time has come for us to come out of hiding, Ulrik, time to bring the light to fight the darkness. I left Father William in charge to help Ethel and Mrs. Hemplewhite with the Needful Ones.”
“Henry’s here?” asked Ulrik.
“Damn right, Ulrik. Sorry Abbot,” Henry said, busting through to shake the prince’s hand. “He says I can’t fight, though. Damn it. Sorry, Abbot. But look how you’ve changed—the chubby baker boy’s turned into a tall, strong prince. Ethel wouldn’t recognize you.”
With Abbot Peter joining them, the Council met that evening to make the last arrangements. They agreed to wait and see what the wizard would do, rather than to initiate the attack. The abbot and abbey staff would organize help stations at the rear. Brother Salvador, who would lead the care for the wounded, had brought his entire stock of herbs, ointments, tinctures, and bandages.
The weight of the next day bore down on Ulrik, crushing sleep away. He lay on his back, folded his hands on his chest, and prayed, “Dear God, only you know what will happen tomorrow. We need your help, your strength, your love to fight this evil that has taken hold. You’ve put me here no longer a boy but a prince. I need your wisdom. I need . . .”
“You need sleep, my child, my Ulrik,” said his mother’s voice. He knew it wasn’t a Dream Demon. The voice filled him with love and hope. “You aren’t alone, my beloved boy. The Lord is with you today, tomorrow, and forever. Rest now. You’ll know what to do, my Uley, my love.”
Barty woke him before the sun’s first light. The old Barty appeared in full force with hair and beard tightly trimmed, a breastplate set to high polish on his chest with matching greaves on his legs, a brocade cape tossed over one shoulder. He made a fashionable turn to show off his attire. “I found the breastplate and greaves stashed in a shed. Edgar helped me polish them up. If I’m going to die I figure I should be well dressed for the funeral,” he commented.
Before Ulrik could respond, the sound of fighting arose from the ranks of the volunteers. Ulrik and Barty rushed over with Prester John. Three of the villagers had ganged up on two volunteers. The volunteers stood back to back, holding their pitchforks at the ready while the villagers taunted them by calling them “dumb farm-hands,” and “stupid cowards.” The volunteers readied to lunge with their weapons when Prester John stepped in front of one of them. Ulrik did the same with the other. Upon seeing both their prince and their commander, the men lowered their weapons and the villagers dispersed. Prester John dismissed the volunteers and sent them to their squad.
“They’re tense and scared,” explained Prester John. “It won’t be easy to keep them together. You need to address the fighters.”
“What’ll I say?” asked the prince.
“You’re the crown prince, Ulrik. They expect it and deserve to know who and what they are willing to die for.”
The squads formed up again and Ulrik stepped out in front of them. All attention turned to him.
“My friends. The evil we face has brought darkness upon us all. The darkness has touched all of us, driving us from our homes and into hiding, destroying lives and love. This is the day we drive the darkness out. We fight not only the evil deeds of the wicked who have laid waste to our land, but the darkness itself. But if we fight the darkness alone, relying solely on our strength, we have no hope of success and our land will be consumed by it. But let me assure you, we do not fight alone—the light of the world is with us. We go forth bringing the light against the darkness to restore the light to our lands, to our homes and families. The Lord is with us today. The power of darkness may appear stronger and more powerful than we are. That is not true, for the light that is with us is the light of God. The Lord of Hosts goes with us, shielding us with the armor of light to win the final victory.”
“Amen,” resounded from the troops.
Two women from the abbey carried a long table and set it in front of the army; upon it they placed a cup, a plate of bread, and a pitcher filled with wine. Prester John, assisted by Abbot Peter, celebrated the Sacrament of Holy Communion and proceeded to commune each soldier in turn. When Ulrik came forward, the prince reminded those serving that he hadn’t been confirmed yet. “As your teacher and pastor,” said Prester John, “You’re ready for it. I pray it’s not your last communion.” Ulrik received the bread of Christ’s body and drank the wine of Christ’s blood and returned to his place—front and center before his troops.
Before they concluded the service, the Mage’s army had amassed on the opposite side of the field. “Give up this foolishness,” called the wizard, well fattened and riding a gigantic scorpion. “Can bread and wine help you, or your illusion of a god, or that stripling of prince, or that turncoat John? We bring the power of earth and air. How can you fight us?”
The two armies faced each other, studying the other, waiting for the first move. The wizard continued to taunt them, “Uley,” he sneered, “did you get the flower? You were so foolish to believe that story; I had to laugh to myself when I saw you and your pet idiot sneak out of the castle. I never thought that getting rid of you would be so easy. Didn’t you know you were supposed to die on that search? Since you didn’t die then, you will have to die today, and all your foolish friends with you.”
Ulrik stepped forward, “Why do you fight me? No one need die today. Leave and send your army away, or have you forgotten your oath? Do you not fear your demon’s wrath?”
The Mage threw back his head and laughed, causing his hood to fall back. “What can a boy know of such matters; I fear no gods or demons. I have grown even more powerful than before. I am my own god and my own demon. I fear nothing.”
Ulrik stepped back while Prester John ordered the soldiers to hold fast, realizing the jeers of the wizard raised jitters in the men. Then, from within their ranks came the strengthening voice of song as someone began to sing:
O little flock, fear not the Foe
Who madly seeks your overthrow;
Dread not his rage and power.
What tho’ your courage sometimes faints,
His seeming triumph o’er God’s saints
Lasts but a little hour.
Others joined in on the second verse:
Be of good cheer; your cause belongs
To Him who can avenge your wrongs;
Leave it to Him, our Lord.
Tho’ hidden yet from mortal eyes,
His Gideon shall for you arise,’
Uphold you and His Word.
By the third verse nearly the entire army sang out, loud and clear:
As true as God’s own Word is true,
Not earth nor hell with all their crew
Against us shall prevail.
A jest and byword are they grown;
God is with us, we are His own;
Our victory cannot fail.
Only one failed to join his voice with the others. Hayden refused to sing but clutched his club, aching to move. Before the command could be given, he broke ranks and charged alone toward the wizard screaming, “For Nathan, my Nathan.” He ran straight to the wizard and demanded revenge for his son. The Mage looked down upon him and spoke to the scorpion in an unknown tongue. The scorpion went after Hayden as if he were some insignificant prey, quickly stabbing him with the stinger and devouring him.
Ulrik’s soldiers watched in agony, and for their comrade they broke ranks and charged the field against the cries and orders of Prester John and Ulrik. All but those closest to the prince ran pell-mell over the field into the weapons of the mercenaries and pirates. Rather than see their forces decimated, Prester John and Ulrik formed their soldiers into formation and charged the center, Prester John in the lead and Ulrik at his right.
The prince was the first to meet an enemy, the pirate who had thrown him from Hurricane’s Handmaiden.
“Second times a charm, boy,” said the pirate as he came at Ulrik trying to bring his sword down upon his head. The prince blocked the attempt but didn’t press his advantage.
“Kill him before he kills you,” shouted Prester John. “Kill him like I taught you.”
The pirate attacked again, coming in low this time, and faster. Ulrik felt a sting on his leg; his block was incomplete, blood began to run down his thigh. The sight of his own blood fired his attack.
All remnants of Uley, the cook’s boy, the frightened little princeling vanished with his charge. The boy who doubted his duty died when Ulrik cleaved the pirate’s head; and then, with the bloodlust rising in his veins, he attacked any who stood in his path. He was to be king and he quickly learned to weld the sword on behalf of the righteous. He would have continued to press on to the Mage single handedly but Prester John called him back, commanding a retreat, to regroup and regain strength.
The bloodbath took a quarter of those who went out and many of those who returned were injured. As they limped back to their lines the wizard gave the order to advance. The disciplined mercenaries and pirates moved with trained efficiency. Ulrik’s own soldiers stood in awe of their approach, weapons droppings to their sides as hearts and courage withered.
Ulrik wiped the blood from his sword and would have called for another charge but Barty grabbed him and pointed to a cloud of dust approaching from the left. More enemy soldiers, they thought and their flank stood unprotected. Then one of the soldiers from the cloud ran forward without armor or weapons, waving a white cloth as he ran, it was Harald, the champion archer. He approached Ulrik and prostrated himself before the prince. “Forgive us, your Majesty,” he said, “We should have died to the last man to protect our king for we have always been loyal to king and crown. When we refused to serve this Mage he drove us off with his own scum. Please, let us regain our honor and give our lives for you.”
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.