Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1

by James MacGhil

  Turning his head toward me, he said, “Watch the first step,” and quickly faded into the wall of light. Carefully guarding my scone stash like a running back carrying a football, I reluctantly followed him and stepped across the threshold, hoping the unnamed mystery women on the other side was not a fan of Rooster’s scones.

  Cause I wasn’t frigg’n sharing.

  Chapter 18

  After a brief falling sensation I felt my feet firmly plant on the floor. As the blinding light slowly faded, a rotunda of pure white walls and arched ceiling came into focus. It was eerily similar to the rotunda at Raven Spire but completely sterile. Everything was white. No doors. No windows. No nothing. With exception to a bowling ball sized whitish orb slowly spinning atop a pedestal of dark rock in the middle of the peculiar room.

  Upon closer inspection, the pedestal seemed to be set in the dead center of a large six-pointed star symbol, encased in a bold circle, inlaid perfectly into the pristine floor with a lustrous metal. From which, a nearly transparent force field of crackling energy formed a perfect cylinder that ran from the floor to the ceiling, seemingly guarding the odd structure. Before I had the opportunity to say anything, the booming sound of a female voice echoed through every inch of the circular space.

  “Acknowledged — O’Dargan, John — Cleric — Seventh Realm. Acknowledged — Robinson, Dean — Seventh Deacon of the Seventh Line.” With her tone changing to something more of a congenial nature, she said, “Good Morning, Rooster. You are late. In your usual fashion.”

  “Who the hell’s that?” I asked Rooster under my breath as I awkwardly tried to pinpoint the source of the disembodied voice.

  “Welcome, Deacon Robinson,” she said before Rooster could answer. “We have been awaiting your arrival with great anticipation. I see you have recovered your strength.”

  “Ah, Thank You,” I muttered looking around the empty room. “I have … I think.”

  “Dean, I would like to introduce you to Skyphos — the sentient eye of the Guild,” Rooster said with a content grin. “Amongst other things, Skyphos is the keeper of knowledge and centric to our operations on Earth. In addition to throneView, which you’ve already seen in action, she also powers the throneLink system, allowing the members of the Seven Realms to communicate across the boundaries of Heaven and Earth through various mediums. And with assistance from a humble yet brilliant cleric she’s been fully integrated with the very cutting edge of technology.”

  “I did not require your assistance, Rooster. I simply became weary of your incessant badgering,” Skyphos announced quite matter of factly.

  “Is Skyphos the floating bowling ball?” I whispered leaning closer to Rooster.

  In a lower whisper, he nervously replied, “Yeah, sort of, but —.”

  “So, the bowling ball is a divine super computer? Like an artificial intelligence?”

  Before Rooster had the opportunity to answer, the incorporeal female voice boomed, “I am neither a bowling ball nor an artificial intelligence, Deacon Robinson. I am Skyphos of Galgallin - An ophanim class angel.”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” I muttered jumping back from Rooster and thoroughly embarrassed. “Sorry for that. Apologies, ah, Skyphos.”

  “Apologies are not required, Deacon,” she amenably replied.

  Leaning over and whispering, “Real smooth,” Rooster took a few steps toward the perimeter of the circle. Focusing his attention directly on the rotating orb, he said, “Skyphos, request permission to enter.”

  Turning back toward me, he said, “Now, watch this. Prepare to be blown away.”

  “Permission granted,” she replied as the circular shield of near transparent energy, running from the ground to the ceiling around the pedestal, retreated into the shiny metal inlay on the floor with a distinct popping sound.

  Approaching the orb, he gently placed his hand upon it, and boldly said, “Initiate Deacon Operations Command protocol.”

  When absolutely nothing happened, he determinedly said, “INITIATE — Deacon — Operations — Command — Protocol!”

  When absolutely nothing happened for the second time, he sheepishly muttered under his breath, “Please … initiate Deacon Operations Command protocol.”

  “Initiating Deacon Operations Command,” boomed Skyphos with a detectable hint of satisfaction.

  Making the mental note that I was really starting to like that bowling ball, I watched in amazement as the orb flashed a brilliant deep red and the sterile room morphed into an otherworldly command center. In a systematic yet graceful transformation, the blank facade gave way to an obscure mixture of technology, medieval style decor, and crude lightning. Although I’d never give Rooster the satisfaction, it was perhaps the coolest damn thing I’d ever laid eyes on.

  A series of ginormous flat screen tVs blinking furiously with video feeds, streams of data, and assorted maps instantly manifested and covered all the available wall space from top to bottom, literally circling the room. The white, textureless ceiling and floor instantly morphed into a pattern of dark cobblestone, like something you’d see in a timeworn castle of the Middle Ages. Hanging from the ceiling appeared a series of iron, gothic-like chandeliers which housed countless small candles providing flickering, dim lighting throughout the daunting space. A number of ornate wooden desks, complete with old fashioned telephones and hovering tV monitors, formed a wide perimeter of workstations around the Skyphos orb.

  Just when I thought the show was over, I turned to Rooster in complete and utter awe only to find him staring back at me with a full on shit-eating grin.

  “Nice, huh? Now, for the grand finale.”

  Removing his hand from the orb, he raised both arms outward. Dramatically throwing his head back, he said, “Activate the command bridge.” Although very faint, I also heard him mutter ‘Please’ under his breath right at the end.

  What a putz.

  Upon hearing the magic word, Skyphos boomed, “Activating command bridge.”

  Within a quick second, the sound of grinding rock emanated from the perimeter of the inner circle, and it inexplicably began to break free from the surrounding floor and rise steadily in the air, taking Rooster with it. As I stood at ground level watching the whole spectacle, I couldn’t help but mutter, “Yep, that’s pretty frigg’n cool,” despite myself.

  As the hovering stone platform reached height, roughly thirty feet above me, a spiral staircase of aged iron wound its way — step by deliberate step — toward the bottom. A dull thud echoed throughout the room as the final step manifested at floor level and I looked up at a beaming Rooster.

  “Permission to come aboard the bridge, Admiral,” I called up with just a smidgen of sarcasm.

  “Permission granted, newbie,” he smugly replied. “We usually make the rookies climb a rope the first couple hundred times. Consider yourself lucky.”

  Figuring that scones were probably not welcome on the bridge, I popped another couple in my mouth and carefully placed the tray on the nearest workstation for safekeeping. Reaching the hovering platform after a healthy climb up the narrow stairway, I found the Chickenman sitting rather comfortably in an oversized, leather captain’s chair with his feet propped on a massive semicircular wooden desk — which had nothing on it but a black, rotary style telephone.

  Statically hovering in the air around him were a series of holographic tiles, displaying various virtual images methodically organized in clustered groupings. Not having the faintest clue what to say, I simply stood there, speechless, watching the surreal display of otherworldly technology in action. Using his hands, he furiously plucked various translucent tiles from what looked to be a hovering, virtualized base console, and casually flipped them through the air into the correct cluster after a brief second of analysis.

  Momentarily pausing on every third or fourth image, he used various finger gestures to artfully manipulate the virtual tile, creating a larger or clearer depiction before rendering disposition. The bits of information he deemed unimportant we
re virtually crumpled with a quick hand motion, and tossed backward over his shoulder where they simply faded into an imaginary trashcan and vanished. Feverishly muttering to himself, he did this for an intense five minutes as I stood there trying to process what in the hell was happening.

  Just as I was about to say something, he abruptly jumped to his feet with a virtual stack of tiles in his left hand. Giving me a clever wink, he then proceeded to use his right hand to effortlessly sling them, like Frisbees, toward several of the gigantic tV screens lining the walls of the rotunda. As the tiles collided with their target, the information contained upon them instantly replaced whatever was currently displayed on the oversized monitors.

  “Now you’re just showing off,” I said with a smirk.

  “Yes. Yes I am,” he replied while reaching down for a steaming mug of coffee that I swear wasn’t there a second ago. “I’d say this was the latest in virtual technology, but it won’t exist on Earth for at least another couple hundred years.”

  “What is it that you were doing there exactly?” I asked while slowly panning around the rotunda taking in the mind-blowing display of information.

  “Sifting through the latest intel and updating our surveillance data. Had to collate the latest reports to prep the DOC for the incoming morning shift. They’ll be firing up shortly. We’re in between shifts at the moment.” Pulling an antique-looking pocket watch from his khaki shorts, he added, “This place will be crawling with clerics and acolytes in exactly … six minutes.”

  “DOC?”

  “Deacon Operations Command.”

  “Of course,” I replied like it was common knowledge.

  “This is how we track nepher activity on Earth — compliments of Skyphos. Over the years we’ve developed a pretty sophisticated process to monitor targets, and subsequently enforce the Rules. Kind of like a step program designed to keep the nephilim population on the right side of the line — with the final step being a visit from a Deacon for those who simply can’t coexist with humanity.”

  “Like a nepher’s anonymous? Are there weekly meetings? Coffee and cigarettes?”

  “Not quite,” he replied with a modest laugh. “But, it works. Aside from the anakim situation, we haven’t had a serious threat to the Balance since the gothen flare up in the fifteenth century. Ironically, that was the foreshadowing to the whole ‘Vampire/Werewolf’ craze. What a farce. It was a real mess. Story for another time though.”

  Pointing to the screen displaying a large map with several highlighted areas marked with concentric circles and various colored blinking dots, he said, “The Seventh Realm, our Realm, has oversight responsibility over North America.”

  “Impressive,” I said nodding my head. “The big war room in the sky.”

  “Yeppers. Literally. From right here — we can dial up the past, the present, and — to some extent — the future. Nothing on Earth is hidden from the Sight of the ophanim. Well, almost nothing.

  “Azazel,” I said recalling an earlier conversation with Stephen.

  “Yep. And the Maradim, to include the new generation of anakim,” he muttered defeatedly. “For some inexplicable reason, they’re able to operate completely off our radar. Veiled. Hidden. Like ghosts. Shouldn’t be possible. Even for an angel. Azazel’s either got some serious mojo we don’t know about or — some serious help. Since your run in with him in Bosnia, we’ve been searching the globe for his bolt hole to no avail. Unfortunately, the signs of the anakim army are everywhere, man. The births, the feedings, the occasional sightings. We’re always a step behind.” Using hand motions, he zoomed the massive map to a section in northern Florida highlighted with a series of concentric circles. “You ever been to Tallahassee?”

  “No. Too fucking hot. And I can’t stand college football.”

  “Well, seems that a pack of anakim dropped in for a visit. Last week.” With a flick of his hand, a collage of grisly, blood-smothered images appeared on the screen next to the map. “Took out a whole field of cattle on the outskirts of town. Devoured. We got there within an hour of the feeding and they were long gone. Nothing left but a collection of oversized footprints and fifty or so ravaged carcasses.”

  “Holy shit,” I grumbled while studying the pictures. “No indication of where they went?”

  “Nope. Smitty’s been deployed there all week with a team of clerics. Shaking down the local nepher colonies. Looking for clues. He’s due to report in this morning. Actually, any minute now,” he said while glancing again at his pocket watch.

  “Smitty?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Henry Lee Smith III, aka ‘Light-Horse’ Henry. Or as most folks call him, Smitty. He’s the sixth Deacon of the Seventh line. Your predecessor. You’ll like him. Army guy — the Continental Army.” With a flick of his hand, an image appeared on a virtual screen, hovering at eye level, in front of me. “There he is in all his glory. Tough bastard.”

  “Aha,” I said not completely sure that I’d heard him correctly about the Continental Army but not really sure I wanted to ask for clarification. “Light Horse, eh?” I muttered, studying the animated picture of a modest looking man in his mid-thirties with shoulder length blonde hair, close cropped beard, and dark green eyes. His round face made him look somewhat jovial but his eyes were hard. The eyes of a soldier.

  “Anywho, back to the feedings,” Rooster said as the image faded. “At this point it’s almost a damn daily occurrence. The anakim show up in the middle of the night in a random location, stuff their faces, and disappear into the ether. Mainly animals but we’ve seen a couple human buffets as well.”

  “After fourteen years of this shit, you haven’t zero’d in on the target?”

  “No,” he grumbled shaking his head. “Not from lack of trying either. I’ve got Skyphos wired into every military, intelligence, and law enforcement data feed that exists. Not to mention the social networking sites and telecom companies I’ve hacked.”

  “Social networking?” I asked.

  “Yeah, like Facebook and —” Realizing I had no idea what he was talking about, he stopped in mid-sentence.

  “I know. I know. After my time …” I grumbled.

  “Yeah, I’ll explain later. At any rate, we’ve got Guild members on twenty-four-hour patrols following leads around the country — and still nothing concrete. Azazel has clearly been able to create a heavily warded shadow realm without our knowing. Which again, should not be possible. The real kick in the balls is that we can’t find the damn tether.”

  “A shadow realm? Like in Heaven?”

  “Nope,” he muttered while quickly pulling up and flipping several holographic tiles in the air around him. “Shadow realms are in the between space.”

  Reading my blank look, he said, “It’s like this. Light — Dark — Shadow. The light realms are those of Heaven. The dark are those of Hell. Period. Although infinite in concept, they occupy discrete dimensional locations, so to speak, and were created by the Father’s hand with a rigid admission policy — if you know what I’m saying.”

  “Ok,” I said somewhat following the plot. “So these shadow realms are like purgatory?”

  “Not so much,” he quickly replied while flipping several of the floating virtual screens toward the large tV monitors. As several animated schematic-like images appeared on the screen, he pointed at them and said, “Although very difficult, it is possible for certain beings, whether it be angels, demons, powerful nephers, or a combination thereof, to literally punch a hole in the dimensional fabric and create a ‘space between’ that’s off the grid. A limited scope alternate reality.”

  “What?” Was all I could muster, watching the virtual display of how such a mind boggling phenomenon of mysticism and physics was remotely possible. “That’s insane.”

  “Well, it’s actually quite sane if you think about it,” he said while going into lecture mode. “The quantum mechanics of the dimensional —”

  “Dude …,” I grumbled, giving him a ‘not now’ glare.

/>   “Right,” he muttered clearly disappointed that I’d robbed him of his super geek moment.

  Wiping the various images from the screens with a wave of his hand, he said, “Anywho, while shadow realms are allowed to happen — we do keep a close eye on them through Skyphos and the ophanim.”

  Flicking his hand again, a map of the world with several pulsating yellow dots appeared on the main screen occupying the wall to our front.

  “These points indicate every tether across the Earth for each and every unique shadow realm. They must be tethered to a single, physical location on the Earth in order to exist. Some are as large as the entire United States while others are as small as a single structure.”

  Zooming the map to a section of Southern Europe, the island of Greece came into focus. Pointing to the pulsing dot hovering over a majestic mountain range, Rooster said, “Recognize that?”

  “Mount Olympus. Seriously?” I said while glaring at the screen. “Come on, man. Olympus is real? And the Greek gods?”

  “Actually, the Greek gods are real. They’re nephers — ancient ones at that. And, Yes, Olympus is a shadow realm tethered to the mountain. Albeit a sin, the free will of mankind provides the choice to believe in pagan gods. Granted, we all know that particular path won’t end well, but folks believe in what they will. And, for the most part — Zeus and his pantheon are harmless. The Guild pays them a personal visit every couple years. I’ve been once. Long time ago. That was enough. Togas, inflated egos, and raging hormones. Lot of grapes — literally and metaphorically. And Poseidon’s a real asshole, for the record. But Athena on the other hand … she got it going on — Yep-pers …”

  At a total loss for a response, I ignored the mental picture of the Chickenman rocking a toga while shamelessly drooling over a nepher goddess, and simply stared at the map in disbelief. Allowing me to stew on it for a moment, Rooster awkwardly said, “But back to my point, the ability to create a shadow realm without our knowing, and continue to keep it veiled from the Heavens takes some serious horsepower. Not something Azazel is able to do of his own accord.”