Free A Chink in the Armor by D. Robert Pease

 
    A Chink in the Armor

    Who can open the doors of his face? Round about his teeth is terror.
     
    His breath kindleth coals, And a flame goeth forth from his mouth.
    In his neck abideth strength, And terror danceth before him.
     
    Upon earth there is not his like, That is made without fear.
    He beholdeth everything that is high: He is king over all the sons of pride.
    Job 41: 14, 21-22, 33-34 (ASV)
     
    “Have you considered the span of my chest?” Job stood, his chin pointed toward the sky.
    Eliphaz laughed. “How could we not? You strut about with nothing more than a cloth around your waist.” He took a deep draught from the mug in his hand.
    Job raised his arms and flexed in the flickering light of the fire. “When have you beheld such power in any man, be he legend or among the living?”
    “You’re a legend, all right.” Bildad leaned toward Zophar. “In his own mind.”
    “Have I not killed the lion with these two hands?”
    All eyes turned to Zophar. It was his turn to retort. “What? I’ve got nothing. He did kill that lion.”
    The four men burst into laughter. The break felt good after such a long war.
    Job looked with fondness on his three friends, his closest advisors: Eliphaz, the shrewd businessman, who ensured Job’s soldiers were fed and outfitted properly; Bildad, so small as to be nearly a dwarf, was a legendary tracker and scout; and Zophar had a tactical mind, able to see weaknesses where none else could discern any flaw.
    He’d known them since they were each weaned from their mother’s breast. Job shook his head. After all they’d been through, it was a miracle they still lived.
    Not a miracle,
Job thought.
They had
me
looking out for them.
    “It will be good to go home,” Job said.
    Bildad smirked. “More so for you. The prettiest woman in our village awaits your return.”
    “That she does.” Job smiled. “I wooed her with my charms.”
    “More like your forearms,” Zophar said. This set the friends laughing again.
    Light flashed on the northern horizon—a deep ruddy glow, unlike any lightning Job had seen before. His friends caught his earnest stare toward the darkness beyond, and grew silent.
    “It will be good to get home,” Job mumbled once more to the night.
    He had put aside his blacksmith hammer and taken up a sword when the tribes of the north inexplicably joined forces, launching an invasion into the land of his forefathers. Job wasn’t one for picking fights, but when the call was sounded for every able-bodied man to enlist, he was the first in his village to join the cause.
    His three friends had been close behind. By the time they met up with the main army, its ranks had grown to thousands.
    Job’s prowess in battle matched his fortune in every endeavor. All his life, he had excelled at everything he put his mind to. Now he was named
Hammer of the South
. Not that he carried a hammer, but he wielded his sword like one: mercilessly pounding his opponents until they crumbled in defeat. Many called him blessed by the gods.
    He wasn’t so sure.
    All he had, all he was, came from the sweat of his brow. If others felt he was unfairly blessed, they simply did not work as he did. To the strong come blessings. To the mighty, good fortune.
    He’d heard the whispers. He knew his standing, especially among those who did not know him. “Job is arrogant. Cocky,” they said. He once overheard a blacksmith say, “If there’s one chink in Job’s armor, it’s his blind faith in his own abilities.” However, those who knew him best, those who lived and fought side-by-side with him, knew that his confidence—heck, call it arrogance—was justified.
    Job knew his limits, and they were few.
    His mastery on the field did not go unnoticed. Soon he’d risen through the ranks. For well over a year, Job commanded the armies of the South. His strength drove the enemy back. His power made even the mightiest soldier quiver. Everywhere he roamed, fear walked before him.
    But