The Warrior… Part 7

Part 1 – Upon The Rock
Part 2 – In The Upper Room
Part 3 – The Lord of Hosts
Part 4 – The Uninvited Guest
Part 5 – The Gift
Part 6 – The Truth About Soldiers

Part 7 – The Loss

An uneventful week passed.

Dillon and Mark had, after some difficult theoretical discourse, concluded that ‘righteousness’ basically boiled-down to being nice. Dillon was back to the discouraging business of trying to be a good guy. He felt no tingling on the nape of his neck to confirm this was right, but decided that maybe some things really did revolve around keeping the faith and behaving oneself.

“So far, so good,” he thought after arriving home from work on Friday. He had successfully managed the week without any known scriptural breaches. There had been a close call on Wednesday afternoon with an off-color joke told by a co-worker, but Dillon had managed to be gracious without showing any amusement. That, he reasoned, was the appropriate response.

Dodging infringements or outright violations was work, but it was the kind of manageable goal that Dillon liked. The broader range of “good works” was slightly more daunting. He was worried that he had not done enough for the needy around him or missed an opportunity to share his faith. He spent most of the ride home pondering the question of what degree of involvement in community and religious service would be enough.

Checking his messages, Dillon realized that he was supposed to meet Mark for coffee later tonight. He weighed the option of spending the meantime in the gym and decided that he would. He enjoyed the mental vacation that a half-hour on the treadmill afforded.

He took off his shirt and tie and slipped on a pair of running shorts. As he tied his shoes, he was considering the implications of the crossover that he and Mark had discussed earlier in the week. Caleb had told him that he would eventually be able to control his perceptions of the supernatural and had likened it to walking through a door. Dillon found the metaphor appealing. He glanced up at the door leading from his apartment into the hallway and smiled.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” he thought out loud.

He slid from the couch to the floor and began to stretch. Reaching for his toes, he pulled and felt a slight burn in his hamstrings. He grunted audibly. As the tightness in his muscles began to lessen, he continued his musings. If there was indeed a crossover, he could conceivably check his armor there for deficiencies. He could make contact with Caleb purposefully, rather than just waiting for him to show up. There were a number of arguments in favor of attempting to crossover, in spite of the fact that Dillon had no idea what sort of peril might also be out there.

Dillon headed for the door, stopping briefly in the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator. He went through his mental checklist: water, keys, and stopwatch. Everything was in order and he had plenty of time.

Opening the door, he felt a rush of cold air and something in his vision shifted. He was aware of a continued chill and the faint sound of voices. The sound was vaguely familiar, like listening to a dinner party from the next room, but a dinner party where all of the guests were unrelievedly bored. Closing the door, he noticed that the generally vivid paint was severely desaturated, as if it had been subjected to harsh sunlight for several decades. The light, he decided, was a bit too bright, resembling the harshness of the afternoon sun but lacking warmth. Shadows appeared proportionately darker. Everything resembled a television picture with the contrast turned way too high.

Dillon was suddenly aware of a presence behind him, at once potent and ambiguous. He couldn’t sense a clear purpose but his gut reaction was one of self-defense. He pivoted on his left foot and dropped into a crouch, simultaneously raising his left hand to shield against an assault.

The attack came quickly and the dull din of far-off voices was replaced by the ringing of steel on steel. Then came the laughter; a good-natured and affable sound in this strange environment. Dillon looked up and saw Caleb standing before him, sword in one hand and something resembling a small mace in the other, head to toe in white armor. In his own hand, Dillon held a short, two-edged sword. It was with this weapon that he had deflected the onslaught. His right hand rested on the hilt of the silver sword Caleb had given him, still in its scabbard on Dillon’s left hip.

“I see that you’re ready for a little workout,” Caleb said, jovially. “Care to test your mettle against me on my playing field?”

“Somehow, I doubt that you need a home field advantage to give me a sound thrashing,” Dillon retorted, humorlessly.

“Don’t be so somber, my friend. Come along.” Caleb spun on his heel and began walking briskly down the hall, continuing as he went. “I am very impressed with your reflexes.”

“You could’ve killed me with that thing!” Dillon accused, jogging along to keep up.

“Let that be your first lesson, then,” Caleb turned on him with a stern face. “You could have encountered anyone, anything, coming through that door. You got lucky this time.”

Sufficiently rebuked, Dillon took a more civil tone. “So, you’re here to train me then?”

Caleb continued down the hall with long, martial strides. “That is my assignment, yes.”

Dillon didn’t speak for a few minutes. He followed in silence as Caleb led him out of the building and across the street to a small park. A jogging trail circled a small lake with a fountain in it. On the far side of the lake, there was a grassy slope that was popular for picnicking on the weekend. Today, however, it was deserted and Caleb made for it purposefully. Dillon noticed a change in Caleb’s manner and finally commented on it.

“You certainly are bossy tonight.”

“Just feeling a bit pressed,” Caleb said without turning. “You should not have been able to walk in this reality for some time. They said you’d be a quick study, but your presence here advances the timeline and we still have much to do.”

“What do you mean: ‘Advances the timeline’ in what way?” Dillon had a sinking feeling.

They had reached the hillside and Caleb turned to face Dillon. Drawing his sword, Caleb challenged him, “No time for chit-chat. Show me what you’ve got.”

Dillon was suddenly aware of the other people in the park. “What about all of these people? Can they see us?”

“Their perception of you is a fellow sitting in the grass reading.”

“Reading?” Dillon asked, a little too incredulously.

“This is a spiritual discipline, Dillon,” Caleb said with a hint of impatience, “regardless of your perceptions on this plain, to them you’re just meditating.”

“Oh.” And with that Dillon launched a two-handed attack that he instinctively knew would catch Caleb by surprise. Dillon was surprised by the speed of his opponent’s parry and found himself on the defensive after a furious exchange of blows. At every opportunity to gain some advantage, Dillon found himself dodging or ducking or jumping back to avoid the mace-like weapon that Caleb swung with his left hand.

“What is that thing?” Dillon asked, leaping back and to the left to avoid another swing. Caleb could hold him at bay indefinitely, and with very little effort, by swinging the small, spiked weapon.
“We don’t have a word for it in our language,” Caleb answered, swinging it again. “It is fashioned after a weapon that the Enemy calls durog. In Mortal terms, it is Condemnation. Very effective, especially against you modernists with your dual blade kit and fighting style.” He swung again, this time only barely missing Dillon’s body armor.

Dillon was tiring quickly and the fact that Caleb continued to lecture and fight energetically was discouraging. “How do I defend against it?” he croaked between labored breaths.

“Poorly.” Another near miss, this time aimed at Dillon’s head. One of the longer spikes on the durog grazed Dillon’s cheek, leaving a burning, bleeding wound that seemed to swell instantly, obstructing his vision. “I draw first blood.” Caleb’s voice was cold.

Dillon flailed blindly with his long sword; Caleb ducked under the swing, stepped boldly forward and planted the durog squarely in the center of Dillon’s chest.

Dillon heard a sickening wet crunch as the spikes pierced his body armor and breastbone. He felt his chest stricken with the same instantaneous swelling that had occurred on his face. In a sudden panic, he realized that he could not draw a breath. His legs gave way and he faltered to his knees.

The last thing Dillon saw before blacking out was Caleb’s saddened face.

<Continue to Part 8>