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
Part 8 – The Messenger Revealed
Part 9 – The Game of Eightball
Part 10 – Training Day
photo credit: Tim Jones (timmyjohn1 on Flickr)
Caleb was a blur of movement.
As the weeks passed, Dillon noted that his trainer seemed to draw more and more from some source of unnatural strength and speed. There were no longer any playful jibes. Caleb was all business.
He would appear out of thin air in the most unexpected places: the gym, the park, the cube-shaped, carpet-covered box that Dillon used for an office… Apparently, no place was off-limits. When Dillon complained about the increased frequency of their sparring matches, Caleb scolded him.
“Your enemy could be anywhere anytime. Quit whining and fight.”
So, Dillon fought… anywhere, anytime… and Caleb seemed to move faster and faster. Dillon had been scraped and impaled with the durog more times than he cared to count. Each time, Caleb would soften after Dillon’s defeat and talk to him for a few moments about tactics, weapons and what he referred to as “the proper ways to arm oneself.”
Dillon was learning.
He had been working on a tactic that he thought might succeed in taking the durog out of play and allowing him an advantage in single-handed fencing. Today is the day, he thought, keeping his eyes on Caleb as he ducked and dodged the attack and batted the durog away with his shield.
The motion of defense had become ingrained in his muscles. He stopped needing to anticipate attacks as his reflexes grew quicker and his movement more nimble. The right parry seemed to flow like the movement of a savage dancer to some unheard rhythm.
Caleb made a feint with his sword arm, but Dillon saw the durog swinging in from the periphery and dropped to one knee, allowing the weapon to pass over his head. Caleb shifted his weight to the other foot and seamlessly reversed the direction of the swing. Dillon stepped back to avoid the backhand.
Here it comes.
Caleb raised his sword arm and Dillon blocked the attack before it had any power behind it.
Caleb faltered slightly.
It was not the first time. This was the only move that his mentor ever made that was predictable: His left hand dipped across his knees and then swung the durog toward Dillon’s left flank in a vicious, backhanded uppercut. It was ungainly, but it normally had the benefit of throwing Dillon off balance enough to allow Caleb to regain his footing.
Not this time, Legatus.
Instead of dodging or back-stepping, Dillon brought his shield-arm down on the incoming durog with such ferocity that the spikes drove into the leather and wood like nails into a rotten plank. The was a terrific crunch of wood and metal but Dillon continued the motion of the blunt block with his left hand, while bringing the sword in his right hand around in a slashing, forehand attack.
Caleb had to step back to parry or dodge the attack and Dillon took advantage of his momentum to rip the durog from Caleb’s hand.
Instead of the shock-and-awe expression that Dillon expected when he caught eye-contact with his opponent, Caleb was smirking.
Smirking?
The instant after he felt Caleb’s grip on the durog fail, Dillon released his grip on the shield and it sailed about 15 feet through the air before crashing to the ground. He started a pivot, grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands and prepared to attack Caleb’s unarmed left flank as he came back around.
Caleb waited until Dillon was halfway through his pivot, with his back to his opponent, to reach out and grab Dillon’s hair with his free hand.
To Dillon, it felt like a desperate punch to the head until Caleb pulled him off his feet with a fierce yank. His back slammed into Caleb, whose balance and footing made the impact feel like a brick wall. Dillon tried to suck in a breath.
That was when he felt the cold steel of Caleb’s sword pressing against his neck.
“Don’t ever let go of your shield,” the angel said seriously.
Dillon dropped his sword with a bit too much force. “Ok, you win,” he failed to keep the irritation out of his voice, “That didn’t work quite like I’d hoped.”
“No, I guessed not.” Caleb sat on a nearby rock. “It had the benefit of being creative, but the strategy simply will not work with a live opponent.”
Dillon shrugged away and turned his back on the Legatus. He meandered through the scattered boulders to the spot where his shield and the durog had landed. He tried unsuccessfully to push down his anger, but felt his irritation growing instead. Whether it was the frustration of his continual loss against Caleb or just the smug satisfaction on his mentor’s face, Dillon was unsure, but with certainty he understood his desire to slam the angel’s head into one of the jagged rocks surrounding them.
He picked up his crushed shield and roughly pulled the durog from it. Large splinters and chunks of wood popped out of place, leaving a gaping hole.
“I’ve never seen it damaged like this,” he shouted over his shoulder without looking back.
“No surprise. You sacrificed it with a stunning display of force.”
Dillon hesitated. Did he hear sarcasm in Caleb’s voice? He turned on his teacher with a fury. “I can see why they’ve kept you away from training for millennia. You suck at it!”
“Do I?” Caleb asked with only the slightest inclination of his head to acknowledge the attack. “And you know so much about tactics and warfare that you’re ready to instruct me. Do go on.”
The cool response made Dillon see red. He began to rant as he walked toward Caleb. “You never teach me anything until I’ve already made a mistake… and it usually involves me getting skewered on this.” He shook the durog to illustrate and drew his own sword.
Caleb cocked his head and smiled. “Thinking about showing me a taste of my own medicine, are you?”
“I think you’ve got it coming,” Dillon sneered, leading into an attack with his sword arm.
Caleb was on his feet, sword in hand, and easily deflected the blow.
“Show me how it’s done, Legatus.” Dillon swung the durog at Caleb’s head. “Show me how a real master handles this attack.”
Caleb ducked and laughed. “I thought you had it all figured out, Dillon. Show me what you’ve got.” With that, he counter-attacked with such speed and agility that he threw Dillon off-balance. Sitting roughly on a large stone, Dillon ducked under the next blow and used his lowered center of gravity as an advantage. He pushed off the rock with his legs, wrapped his arms around Caleb’s waist and tackled his opponent.
Caleb twisted aside as they connected with the ground. He narrowly missed landing on the durog that Dillon still held firmly, but succeeded in pinning Dillon’s sword arm against the ground.
Caleb punched Dillon in the mouth with his free hand.
Dillon struggled, enraged, but could not get enough traction to pull away from Caleb’s weight on his arm.
Caleb punched him again.
The pain and humiliation of being held hostage only made Dillon’s anger more intense. Nearly blind with this rage, he squirmed until he saw the only advantage he had left and savagely slammed his forehead into his opponent’s nose.
He heard a wet crack, but before he could take any satisfaction in it, Caleb spoke. “The only way to break out of this impasse is to let go of the durog.”
“NO!” Dillon heard himself shouting right in his mentor’s face, “Not until it’s sticking out of your chest! You deserve this! You’re a failure! You can’t teach me anything! You just beat me up every chance you get.” He drew on the last bit of adrenaline to wriggle free of Caleb’s grasp without success and then went limp.
Caleb pulled Dillon against his chest in a strong hug and whispered, “Think about this and you’ll have your answer.”
Then he vanished, leaving Dillon lying on the rocky hillside in his hiking shorts, exhausted, broken and thinking.
.
I thought I knew Jesus… Then I read Mikalatos’ book.
Dillon walked quickly back to his apartment. He was never quite certain about the passage of time when he encountered Caleb. Their conversations seemed to take place outside of the normal flow of history. What seemed like hours of discourse could be accomplished in a few minutes; sometimes it felt as if the opposite was also true.
