Free A Chink in the Armor by D. Robert Pease Page A

from his men, Job garnered respect. Job led the charge. Job laid waste to all around him and inspired his men to fight and die for the love of their captain.
    The war had been bloody and long. Then one day, after months of fighting, the enemy abruptly turned and withdrew—no explanation, no final salvo. In their wake, thousands of brothers, fathers, and sons littered the fields of battle. The armies of the South had triumphed.
    Job had triumphed. But something made him uneasy.
    He’d left the armies encamped to the south and selected a hundred stout men to pursue the enemy north. He needed to be sure they indeed quit the war. For two weeks, he’d harried the rear guard. For two weeks, he’d nipped at the heels of the retreating enemy. Yet with every day that passed, every hour gone by, Job’s unease grew. He knew to trust his gut. Too many times in the past, it had been correct.
    He scanned the encampment. Job’s command tent was set on a slight rise in the middle of camp. His eyes played over the scores of fires circled around him. Shadows huddled close, keeping warm in the cold night air. It seemed unnatural being this cold so early in autumn. But they had chased the retreating armies far to the north—farther from their homeland than Job, or any of his men, had before traveled.
    Steam erupted from the horses’ nostrils picketed nearby. In this respect, his forces were stronger. The armies of the North knew nothing of mounted warfare, preferring the strength of numbers on foot. How glorious it was, to launch himself into the midst of battle on a mighty charger, seeing the fear in his enemies’ eyes as he pounded down upon them. Such savages knew nothing of the finer art of war.
    The horizon flashed again, and a strange scent rode the wind. He gazed off into the predawn darkness a while longer, then turned to his friends. They had quieted down, sensing their leader was troubled.
    “There is something amiss,” he said. “Bildad, I need you to scout north. I do not like that sky.”
    The little man nodded, plucked up his short bow and dashed off.

    The hours dragged on and the wind picked up. Job knew there would be no morning sunrise. Clouds, which only moments before were wisps across the moon, began to pile upon each other, blown from the frozen reaches of the North.
    He did not sleep. He only waited. At the hour when morning should have dawned, he caught a glimpse of darkness streaking across one of the few bare patches of sky. Where the starry host still shone, a brief shadow blotted out the heavenly light, much too fast for cloud.
    His instincts screamed and he leapt to his feet. “To arms!”
    At the very moment his voice cried out, a thunderous shout sounded from every direction—a bellow from a multitude of throats.
    Job’s body reacted before his mind could catch up. He grabbed his sword and a great javelin. “To arms! To arms!”
    The sky opened and a torrential rain fell.
    Zophar and Eliphaz jumped to their feet, scrambling for their weapons. All around them, Job’s highly trained soldiers rushed to the edges of the encampment to form a defensive perimeter. He quickly assessed the threat.
    Torches sprang to life in the darkness beyond their encampment’s dwindling fires. Flame after flame lit northern tribesmen’s faces as fire was passed soldier to soldier. Just out of bowshot stood a vast army, easily ten times their own one hundred men.
    How could he have been taken so unawares?
    “They’ve drawn us into a trap,” Zophar said.
    Job scanned the torchlight looking for a weakness.
Why do they wait?
    “There.” Zophar pointed to the southeast, toward a slight lessening in the number of torches.
    In that direction, Bildad had reported a trail winding up through the rocky cliffs bordering the plain where they camped. Job was never without an escape plan, and this was it.
    “It is our only hope.” Job turned to Zophar and Elliphaz. “Leave two tens to guard our rear flank. The rest will follow