Armor of God: The Paladin

By Tracy Lesch

What is the difference between justice and vengeance?

Captain Jean Baptiste, monk, farmer, and soldier, must find the answer as he fulfills his ultimate role of God's own Paladin. His quest brings him into battle with the most horrific denizens of the underworld, but the hardest demons to vanquish may be those that lurk within the human heart. What lies ahead for the one mortal on earth who can summon the very Armor of God?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tracy Lesch
• Release date: Dec 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9780983462422

Tracy Lesch

Tracy Lesch is an award-winning writer of Fantasy, Suspense, and other Speculative Fiction. He is a former Dungeons & Dragons illustrator, radio, and television personality. His work has appeared in books, magazines, and online venues. In 2006, excerpts from his fantasy epic Armor of God: The Paladin earned him Writer of the Year from the Florida Christian Writer’s Conference. Tracy is also a member of the Professional Writer’s Alliance, a graduate of the Christian Writer’s Guild, and a member of the CWG Word Weavers Critique Group. Tracy is currently finishing E11even Rooms, a suspense thriller, as well as the second book in the Armor of God series, The Heretic.

Book preview

Armor of God: The Paladin

Tracy Lesch

Armor of God: The Paladin

By Tracy Lesch

Copyright 2011 Tracy Lesch

Armor of God: The Paladin

By Tracy Lesch

Published by Living-Parables.com at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Tracy Lesch

ISBN: 978-0-9834624-2-2

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with other people, please download a copy for them or encourage them to purchase their own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DEDICATION

To God, who has saved me more times than I can count;

To Shelby, who put up with so much so I could make this happen;

To Eva Marie, for being the best mentor I could ever imagine. I will never forget your encouragement;

To the rest of my Word Weavers friends, too numerous to mention here, who urged me on to the finish line;

-And to you, Dear Reader. This is a gift just for you. I hope it brings you enjoyment.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Being a work of fiction, this novel is not meant to be an exhaustive or precise treatise on the times which it encompasses. However, it was well researched, and in addition to the tidbits I gleaned here and there from different websites, I did rely mainly on three wonderful resources: The Middle Ages by Morris Bishop, Daily Life in Medieval Europe by Jeffrey L. Singman, and A Concise History of the Crusades by Thomas F. Madden.

Also, it was the wonderful work of Cheri Cowell and the folks at Living Parables who brought this version of the book to fruition. I am eternally grateful for them.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

About The Author

Cover

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Online

Chapter One

A knight is sworn to valor, his heart knows only virtue, his blade defends the helpless, his might upholds the weak, his word speaks only truth, his wrath undoes the wicked. –Charles Edward Pogue

Truth is incontrovertible, ignorance can deride it, panic may resent it, malice may destroy it, but there it is. –Winston Churchill

Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. –Ephesians 6:13

My stomach lurched as powerful talons plucked me from the ground. Reflex took over, and I grasped them for fear of falling.

Sudden pain in my shoulders insisted they would not. I spied blood upon my white shirt, hoping for an instant that the wounds were not deep.

I could not pry the impaling claws one whit. They were of impenetrable stone, as was the rest of the body. The large wings displaced huge gouts of air with a whumping sound. My form swung back and forth in its grip as we wheeled over the small village.

The gargoyle was attempting to gain more height. I had no doubt it would drop me once it had done so. There were only seconds to act. My hasty plan might end in my death, but I would have a slim chance.

I prayed to God for the Sword. It materialized in my right hand with all its silver brilliance. I gripped it in both hands and shouted up to the demon of stone.

As I hoped, the horned and beaked face bent to look down at me, staring with orbs of granite.

I arced the Sword cleanly through its neck, the stone no barrier to the wondrous blade. The lopped head tumbled off to one side, the body dropping as a finch when hit by a falcon.

But the talons still gripped me, and the inert form acted like an anchor.

Plummeting, I braced for the impact, fearing the statue would crush me. However, as I fell to the ground it dissolved around me into a snowy powder. I tried to go limp as I struck, so as not to break any bones. It was an exercise in absurdity, for any fractures would have mended with supernatural speed.

As long as I pursued The Quest, I was very hard to kill.

The hard earth pounded the breath from my body as I rolled to a stop.

Some of the villagers surrounded me, helping me to my feet as my lungs started working once more. I brushed sandy stone particles from my clothes.

One of the men spoke up. You have destroyed the demon. God be praised. It was the leader who had originally petitioned my help.

Praise God indeed, I said. But the true demon remains.

What riddle is this you speak?

The gargoyle was brought to life with dark magic. The true enemy is the one who cast the animating spell upon it. You are plagued by a powerful witch. I bent over, shaking dust from my long blonde hair.

The man scanned the faces of his fellow townsmen. Who is this sorcerer? Where are they?

I no longer sense their presence. They have gone into hiding. Once I leave, you must be vigilant lest they return. Witches consort with all manner of evil. For myself, there is no more threat here. It is time I took my leave.

A young farm boy stepped forward. Captain Baptiste, where will you go now?

Like the entangling silk of the spider’s web, I feel a pull. I believe I am needed in Germany. I gave a whistle, and my warhorse Justice thundered down the dirt road to me.

The town’s leader put a hand on my shoulder. Why not stay awhile? Let us tend to your wounds.

Grasping Justice’s reins, I said, Although you tempt me mightily with your kindness, I feel a sense of urgency about my next destination.

One of the womenfolk came and kissed me lightly on the cheek. Thank you. Will we ever see you again?

I merely smiled. Setting my foot in the stirrup, I swung up into the saddle. Turning Justice about, I gave a brief wave. I snapped the reins, and the black beast beneath me broke into a trot.

Riding past the plastered walls and thatched roofs of the little town, I heard a voice say, Only God can say where goes the Paladin.

Indeed, I thought.

Until death.

Chapter Two

Who is there? I can hear you in the darkness.

I am.

Father, is that you?

Of course, my son. Surely you know my voice.

Why are you here?

I am always with you. When you rise up, and when you lay down to sleep, I am with you.

I thought perhaps I was dreaming. Father, I am so tired. So weary.

Then why not come home? We all worry about you. The whole family misses you.

I cannot. It is not yet time. My work is not completed. Besides, how could I face them now?

My son, they forgive you. I have forgiven you. I come to ask you once more if you will but lay down the burden you have chosen and come home. It is time for you to choose to forgive yourself.

Father, I fear one day you will cease to ask me. Would you do that to me?

No man may know the future. You must walk by faith. Do not lean on your own understanding.

"I choose faith. I have always chosen faith. All that I am, all that I do, could not be unless I had faith. I would have died a long time ago. Or worse."

I know. You have honored my name and my house greatly. But this war can end. It is because I love you that I tell you this. You have the choice. You have always had the choice. You have served faithfully and well. However, as your father, I am honor-bound to ask you again: will you forsake vengeance, and empty your hand of the sword you have taken up? Will you choose forgiveness, and rest? Will you leave the battlefield behind, and come home?

Again it comes to this. You know I love you more than this life. You know it.

I know. I also know that you desire to see justice. I know that your heart burns with vengeful desire. I even know the choice you will make in the end. But your will is your own, and you must choose. Tell me, my child. What do you choose?

"What else can I choose?"

Chapter Three

The silver was exquisite, beautiful as I softly polished the blade. When I looked closely I could see tiny rainbows in the mirrored surface. Slicing through the air, it seemed to create its own illumination, even in total darkness. It would have been easy to become mesmerized by the pure beauty of the metal. Then I remembered how incredibly sharp the edge was, and the thought shocked me out of my reverie. After all, it would not do to have injured myself with this fine armament. Besides, such an accident would have been embarrassing considering my history.

This was the most wondrous sword I had ever seen. The blade never needed sharpening, although I had often caught myself doing that very thing. Call it a soldier's habit, if you will: I found it relaxing and almost meditative. The edge never gained one whit of sharpness from my working it. It cut with a supernatural ability and through things unimaginable. This blade cut with an unmatched sharpness. I would expect no less from a weapon forged by God Himself.

When swiping the air, it almost sang as it cleaved the very atmosphere. Yes, this was a fine weapon. A warrior could ask for none better.

I looked out from the loft of the barn, and watched the particles of dust and hay dance in the sunbeams of a new day. The Lord had fashioned a beautiful morning, and I almost forgot the war I was fighting. I smiled, despite myself. Birds sang as if hastily planning their business of the day. I envied their freedom. Seldom able to enjoy mornings such as these, I was more accustomed to the bounce of the saddle, the hoof beats of my steed in the dead of night, traveling over terrain I could barely see. The only singing was the chirp of the cricket, the squeak of the bat, the scream of the owl.

Inhaling, I smelled the dew-laden air that mingled with the strong musk of the hayloft. I heard my sturdy mount move about in a stall below. If only this one moment could have stretched into eternity. But— before I could even complete the thought, I remembered there was work ahead of me.

How long had the war lasted? Decades? Or only years? For an instant, I could not remember my age. How long had it been? How many had died, how many would die? Suddenly I felt weary. I wanted to go back to sleep, never to wake again. How delicious that sensation would have been.

However, I had chosen this life. I had chosen to make a difference while there was breath in me. I avenged— I defended the innocent. Becoming evil's bane, I was the Lord's own instrument, a vessel of His vengeance on this earth. I was a Paladin, then and forever, unto death.

Unto death, however far off that may be.

When I chose the life of a Paladin, I gave up heaven itself. I walk the earth, thwarting the plans of the Evil One. Satan himself was at war with the Lord Almighty, and had sent his unholy lieutenants out into the earth to plague man and pervert all God had created. The Lord made me a counterweight, His own soldier. I derive my strength and power from Him, by faith. The Father entrusted me with the very Armor of God. As long as I am in His service and my faith is strong, I cannot be defeated by the abominations of the devil.

But faith itself is the key. Were I to rely merely on my own skill, or worse, if I were to let my mission consume me, bringing forth every dark thing hiding within my mortal heart, the Armor would become useless. I am in deadly danger every moment I try to win a battle outside of His divine will and protection. I cannot win with my own human hatred or bloodlust, but only with His righteous anger. No human could possibly stand against the unholy evils I have seen. I have to hate evil while struggling against becoming evil. That is the hinge of our bargain. Oh yes, it is a bargain, have no doubt about that.

Flipping the blade in casual fashion, it flew from my grip, its tip embedding in the floorboard. It swayed slowly in its position like a drunken soldier.

Please do not admonish me. I realize the Lord God needs no one to fight his battles for him. I am but one of a line of great men who were transformed and used of God to accomplish His will, men like King David and Joshua. I begged God to let me fight this war, and in the end, He relented. In His mercy, I think He knew my need for it. This mission lets me forget my broken heart.

I long to be with Him, and the date of my death passed long ago. As long as I wear the mantle of Paladin, I cannot go home. The stench of the evil I encounter is upon me, and until I lay down my sword, the heavenlies themselves would not abide my presence.

As I yanked the Sword from the wood, the plank bled a bit of sawdust.

In the end it was my choice. It was my atonement, my penance. It was the only way I could purge myself of past sins. Past failures. One day I will pass into eternity, and I will go knowing that the blasphemous creatures of the pit have been beaten back by my strong sword arm and the purity of the Lord's own blade. Perhaps then I will have rest. Perhaps then my family can forgive me.

Today? Today was a brand new day. The day the Lord had made, praise His name. The war went on. For now I was Jean Baptiste, a Paladin.

The farmer could be heard as he began his day of toil. It was kind for him to let me use his barn. I retrieved my pipe from the saddlebags. Lighting it with an ember from a brazier, I inhaled deeply. The exotic herbs tasted good, aromatic. Reminding me that I was alive. My host's boots could be heard ascending the loft's ladder. His jovial face peeked above the floor.

Good morn, Captain Baptiste. Have you slept well?

Well enough, Farmer Hartog. Thank you again for use of your barn.

"You could have slept inside the house, mein freund. You would have been more warm and comfortable."

A soldier is not accustomed to such things, but may God bless you for your hospitality.

Thank you Captain Baptiste, but I do not believe the Lord comes this way anymore. I think He has abandoned us.

I am here because He has not. Now why don't you tell me of the plague that is supposed to inhabit this area?

He looked at me in shock, unsure of what to say. I saw him tremble, and for a moment he looked as if he would weep. He swallowed deeply. In a hoarse whisper he said, We will speak of it over breakfast. Now, I must tend to the hens.

He strode off. From the loft’s window I could see him plod with legs that were carrying a great burden. A yoke of pain and sorrow, anger and grief crushed the shoulders. I knew just how he felt.

I pulled upon my pipe, bringing the embers back to life, and felt the smoke enter my lungs. The ancient recipe of medicinal herbs was aromatic, and even as my chest filled with a burning sensation, I savored the pain. A reminder that I was still human after all. As I exhaled I tasted the pungent blend with an aftertaste of incense. I watched as the smoke lazily coiled snakelike about itself. It drifted up, agonizingly slow between warm beams of sunlight. The roughly hewn bowl of the long stemmed pipe felt as familiar in my grip as my sword.

As I turned from the hayloft’s portal, I heard my old equine friend rustling in his borrowed stall, content and restless at the same time. He was an intimidating example of horseflesh, silky black, with an unusual white streak running down his brow. I named him Justice when he was assigned me during the War. We had ridden through the fires of hell together, and I feared he would give his very life for me if necessary. Right now he was making his desire for breakfast known by kicking at the walls of his accommodations. I made my way down the rickety ladder.

You are a poor, poor guest my friend. Let us not be ungrateful to Farmer Hartog, shall we?

I entered his stall. As I give him a playful swat across his flank, Justice turned his head to see my smile. We both knew that he was playing. He shook out his mane and blew in my direction as I got his feed.

Remember the day we met, my friend?

The sergeant thought it would be humorous to assign a gentle naïve monk to the most uncontrollable mount in the camp. This horse had already kicked two men violently, and the handlers were resigned to selling him if they could. He was too wild to be trusted in battle, and could cost a good soldier his life. He was large and powerful, the sheer muscle rippling under his glossy coat like braids of rope. I had no doubt he could easily kill a man, but I thought he was the most beautiful thing in God's creation.

My young voice blurted out hopefully, He's to be my steed? Really mine?

This drew laughter from the soldiers, who noticed my tone. It reinforced their belief that I was some simpleton from the country.

He's yours, if you catch him, one of them said.

And then, another added, if he lets you live.

More laughter, but I wasn't paying attention. I was already gingerly opening the gate to his pen, fascinated by this animal. He was eyeing me across the pen at the far end, occasionally snorting. Cautiously I approached him, almost crouching as I walked heel-toe towards him. He reared up once, issuing a challenge. I froze. Behind me the company taunted.

He's going to kill that idiot boy.

I'd be praying right now if I were you!

I turned back to scowl at them but they were no longer laughing. Rather, they looked as if they were in shock. Then I heard the hoof beats. I wheeled back around, only to see the huge black horse charging right for me!

Dear God, save me, I whispered.

All reality stopped, save for the pounding of the earth. I could feel it in the soles of my feet. I did not run. What would be the point? He could easily overtake me before I ever reached the fence. I stood my ground, determined not to shriek in fear.

In the seconds that the horse tore through the distance between us, I remember little, save closing my eyes tightly and shouting, Stop! I anticipated a terrible impact. Would it mean my death?

When I opened my eyes again I was surprised at not seeing heaven itself. I was alive. My arm was outstretched in front of me, and my hand was raised. I flinched when the horses' chest brushed my fingertips. The dust was still falling down around us like snowflakes as he looked down at me.

Praise God, I gasped.

He snorted.

I looked into his eyes. They were incredibly aware, smoldering with embers of intelligence. In my dumb state, my arm was still outstretched. He moved closer, and my fingers touched his neck. It felt as rigid as a tree trunk. The hair on it looked smooth, yet felt bristly. His neck was warm and I could feel the powerful pulse thumping below the surface. He moved his muzzle under my hand, and nudged it. I slowly stroked his muzzle up to his forehead, noticing the white streak there for the first time. Like a bolt of lightning, I thought. As swift as justice.

Aware of the heavy silence, I looked back at the rest of the company. They looked as if they were carved from stone, wide-eyed and unmoving.

Turning back to face the stallion, I looked again into his eyes, and I felt relief.

Thank you, I said. It was as much for God's benefit as it was for the horses'.

And then amazingly, the black beast stepped back and waited. He threw his head back and lowered his stance, signaling his permission to me to clamber upon his back. I wanted to speak some sort of praise, but words would not come. I merely threw my leg over his back. He rose up to his full height, and I gripped his mane.

The astonishment of my fellow soldiers gave way to oaths and prayers. I laughed as my new friend began to canter around the pen, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Praise be to God! With each circuit my joyous laughter increased.

We galloped around that ring as if it were an ordinary, everyday occurrence. The men in the company never spoke of it again, although they treated my equine friend with far more reverence than before. Perhaps they were scared.

It was a mundane tale compared to others I could tell of Justice and myself. I would use the word adventure, only one would never describe riding into the grave itself adventurous. I have seen things to dry blood to petrified dust, and turn one’s pallor white as moon glow. Yet, this simple animal, this piece of horseflesh did not flinch, did not run away from death. It left me to wonder: can a horse be one's guardian angel?

I bounded back up to the loft, enjoying the burst of energy. In a nearby corner an industrious spider wove a web. The ornate design was catching only sunlight on its silky strands. However, it was still just a trap to catch unwary opponents. Delicate silken lace to distract from the ugliness of death.

It was a good time to partake of God's Word. As I rummaged through my saddlebags, my hand brushed across a flask. I was reminded to check it, relieved that there was still some blessed water within, although I would have to obtain more. I found my Vulgate, and with contentment, settled down on a bale of hay, unlatching the large leather-bound manuscript. It fell open to the Psalms, and I thought this was as fitting a place to start as any. My eyes gazed upon Psalm 23:

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of

righteousness for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

Forever. How wonderful that would be. I felt tears well up, threatening to flow over the dams of my eyelids. I had two forevers. The painful existence of the world was my forever, it felt like forever. Then there was the other forever my heart longed for. Dear Lord, have pity on me. I prayed.

I reached for the pommel of the beauteous silver sword. His sword. His sword comforted me. I would fear no evil, for He was with me. Anoint me, my God. Anoint me with fire; bathe me in Your power. Let me be anathema to evil. Let my blade and my strong arm speak the Word of God Himself. Let sin flee from me in abject fear. Let my sword sing, let my skill tell of Your terrible vengeance until the demons who roam this sphere cower back into the pit. Let them whisper to their dread master, ‘it was Baptiste… Baptiste…’ And if I am so blessed I will kick down the very gates of Hell itself, and with the Spirit upon me, I will strike them all down with the fury of a thousand archangels! I shouted.

For the Lord.

For my family.

For my aching, bleeding heart. My pitiful, broken human heart.

"Follow me, Lord. Follow me with Your goodness, Your mercy. I pray for my soul. Because Lord help me, the valley of the shadow of death, the valley….

The valley feels like home."

Chapter Four

Sunlight threw intermittent sparkles along the length of the blade as I executed a series of smooth figure-eight sweeps in front of my body. Large loops came first, followed by those wide enough to parry an opponent’s sword thrust or swiping attack. Then I practiced the smaller ones that wounded or disarmed, concentrating on the tip of the sword as it traced the looping symbol in the air.

I felt anxiety over the battle to come, one I sensed in my marrow. My training was all that would calm me. There was a need within me to be perfect, a swordsman without peer.

It was time for some grip work. Rotating the pommel around my hand, I began first in a vertical wind milling motion against my right side— counterclockwise, then in reverse. To not cut oneself with these maneuvers was a feat in itself. I executed twenty of these until I was satisfied. I then flipped the pommel across my body to my outstretched left hand, where I duplicated the circular exercise. I heard the hum of the blade as it passed by my ear. The sound was strangely comforting.

I then repeated the maneuver, only now the blade sang above my head in circles perpendicular to my body. The motion mimicked seedpods that fell from the trees, the wing shaped leaves whirling about as they fluttered to earth.

I tossed the sword back to my right hand and repeated the overhead movement. I moved on to feints, then parries at five different positions over the points of the body; overhead, shoulder, belt, knee and floor level. The latter move trapped the sword of the opponent. Then it was on to thrusting attacks, where a keen sense of balance came into play. One must be able to strike while keeping their footing, at the same time ready to move into another defensive or attacking position.

Finally I practiced strikes on a support post in the barn. A rusted iron ring served as a target for a thrust to the heart. I executed quick, shallow cuts from every conceivable angle; envisioned at the neck, shoulders, armpit, ribcage and abdomen. I took care not to use such force as to cut clean through the post. As I stabbed to the heart, I forgot myself, and the blade sliced through to the post's rear side.

Captain?

The voice belonged to Farmer Gustav Hartog, standing at the entrance to the loft. I turned, the skewered post becoming visible to him. He looked confused, as well he should have. The sacred blade was no longer suspended there, having returned to God.

"I did not hear you, Herr Hartog."

Captain, did you not just have your sword in your hand?

Actually, I was just devising some new fighting moves. I did not use my sword lest I accidentally injure myself in their execution, but my movements may have given the illusion that I had.

I was immediately repulsed by my deception, yet simultaneously convinced of its wisdom. Most people would not have understood a sword that materialized from heaven.

I see, I see. My mind must have been playing tricks on me. My wife Anna has breakfast ready, if you care to eat.

"Indeed I would.