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

by James MacGhil

  Putting aside the latest revelation of mind blowing information, I asked, “But if the anakim are stashed away in a shadow realm, why do they keep coming back to chow down?”

  “The anakim, unlike other nephers, are bound to the Earth. They can’t live apart from it for extended periods of time,” he replied matter of factly. “They require the flesh and blood of man. For them, there is no substitute.”

  Watching as I wearily rubbed my eyes, he said, “I know — it’s a lot to take in. You with me?”

  “Yeah, I’m with you.”

  “More coffee?” He said pointing to another mug on the desk that I swear wasn’t there a second ago.

  Graciously accepting, I took a powerful gulp, not caring in the least where the hell it came from.

  “Thanks. Needed that,” I muttered as my eyes started to feel incredibly heavy.

  “Yep. You’re running out of steam,” he said with a look of concern. “Need some good old fashioned sleep. Despite all that you are — you’re still somewhat human. Your body needs rest. Not to mention the load on your mind at the current moment. It’ll take a while to adjust. Trust me. I know.”

  “Yeah well, seems we don’t have a while do we?”

  “Maybe not, but we’ll need you at full strength, or as close to it as possible, when the fight comes. And it will come. Sooner than we’d like. Tell you what, why don’t you get some rack before Big A gets back. A couple hours will make you feel like a new man — or at least a new Deacon … I set up a room up for you earlier.”

  Although I didn’t particularly want to stop the indoctrination process, I knew I was smoked. I needed rest. Rooster was right.

  “Ok,” I reluctantly said, “An hour or two max.”

  “You got it. Follow me.”

  As we reached the bottom of the staircase and made our way through the labyrinth of workstations, the morning crew started to filter into the Reliquary and assume their various positions. Although everyone seemed to keep a cautious distance, I noticed that they all shot me a curios glance as they shuffled by, offering various good morning pleasantries.

  “They’ll get used to you,” Rooster said as if he could sense what I was thinking. “Believe it or not, actually laying eyes on the Seventh of Seven is kind of like a human seeing Bigfoot. Ironically, you’re a bit of an urban legend of the supernatural world.”

  “Awesome,” I said letting out a sarcastic sigh. “Caveman is covered in hair and I’m the frigg’n sasquatch.”

  Making the mental note to ask him if Bigfoot was a nepher, I returned a cordial good morning nod to a young woman that passed me. Turning to Rooster, I asked, “Who are these folks?”

  “Mostly acolytes — Gifted humans that have dedicated their lives to the Balance. They serve the Guild in countless capacities.”

  “Like Father Watson,” I said.

  “Yep. Like Father Watson.”

  “You said ‘mostly’ acolytes. Who are the others?”

  “Clerics, like me. Nephilim who made the choice to serve the light in lieu of living in the shadows.”

  As we approached the door leading back to the Quartermaster, Rooster called out, “I’ll be back, Sweetie. Don’t miss me too much.”

  “Acknowledged, Rooster,” the disembodied voice of Skyphos replied almost immediately. “I will not. Rest assured. And as I have reminded you on more occasions that I care to assign number to — Do not refer to me as ‘Sweetie.’ It is upsetting.”

  Chuckling to myself, I said, “So, I’m guessing the whole flaming red hair thing earned you the nickname Rooster?”

  “Not exactly,” he replied. “It’s actually kind of a long story.”

  “Of course it is, “I muttered. “And probably one you’re about to tell me now that I’ve asked.”

  “So there I was,” he said ignoring my snide commentary as he continued walking. “It was July of 1453 and I was tracking a cell of rogue gothen across Europe with a team of clerics. And by a very unfortunate series of events we found ourselves in Gascony, France at the culmination of the Hundred Years’ War. It was ugly. Real freak’n mess. We figured disguising ourselves as French soldiers would allow us to blend in and slip through all the chaos undetected. Didn’t work out quite as planned.”

  “So you got the nickname in battle?”

  “No. Not quite. When the French finally ran the English out of town at the Battle of Castillon the entire place went nuts. I’m talking a month long party of epic proportion. It was insane. And trust me — the old school French could throw down. Think I’m actually still hungover.”

  “Let me get this straight — you got your nickname partying in France — in the Middle Ages?”

  “So, one thing leads to another — We swipe a cask of wine from some unsuspecting monks and next thing I know — I wake up sprawled out in a chicken coop in some random barnyard surrounded by a harem of local maidens who just happened to think I was the French artillery general and mastermind of the victory, Jean Bureau.”

  “And why exactly did they think that?”

  “Probably because I stole one of his uniforms,” he smugly replied. “And I might’ve insinuated I was him — in not so many words.”

  “So you got the name Rooster because you had a medieval orgy — in a chicken coop,” I dryly muttered.

  “Oui Oui,” he quipped in a convincing French accent. “Best kind of nickname. Literal and figurative.”

  “You are so full of shit.”

  “God’s honest truth,” he said holding his right hand over his heart with a beaming smirk. “Ask Caveman. He was there.”

  “My ass,” I grumbled. “And what about the gothen you were tracking? Did you find them?”

  “They gave me the slip in France — but I did find them,” he said pulling to an abrupt halt at the doorway as his demeanor instantly hardened and his eyes flashed a furious, blazing red for a quick second. “Some three hundred and twenty two years later. June of 1775.”

  Not really sure what to say to that, I just stood there gawking.

  “Followed them to Boston,” he said after a long pause. “Put them down at Bunker Hill. Been here ever since.”

  Speechless, I just stood there as he opened the door and faded into the white radiance. Making the mental note to lay off the Chickenman jokes, I started chuckling to myself as I crossed the threshold.

  Adding ‘Medieval French General’ and ‘Minuteman’ to the arcane resume of my enigmatic ginger buddy who didn’t look a day over twenty-five, I muttered, “To hell with the coffee, I need a beer.”

  Chapter 19

  Ever heard the expression ‘You’ll get all the sleep you need when you’re dead?’ Well, I died and sleep is still a goddamn premium.

  That expression is total bullshit.

  Three solid knocks on the stout wooden door of my temporary lodgings rather abruptly roused me from a deep, powerful slumber. Instantly sitting up in the small bed, I instinctively threw the thin wool blanket off my body, swung my bare feet over the edge, and instinctively began to put my boots on.

  One thing about spending your entire adult life in the Army Rangers, when it was time to get up — you got up. But this was a bit different. I wasn’t waking up dog tired on the ground of a third world country amidst a barrage of bullets and mortar fire. I was waking up in the spare room of an otherworldly bar slash command center, which sat in a literal nether region between Heaven and Earth. And, I felt great. Incredible. Almost euphoric.

  That was one hell of a power nap. Guess I really needed it after all. Just as I started to have a mild panic attack at the thought of inadvertently sleeping away another fourteen years, an unfamiliar male voice called out from the hallway.

  “Good Afternoon, Deacon. Please pardon the intrusion but Rooster asked me to give you a wake up call.”

  “Ok, Thanks. Appreciate it,” I called back while taking notice of the time on the antique looking analog clock hanging on the wall opposite the bed. It was almost 2 Pm. “Hey, ah, is it still S
unday, January 5th?”

  “Yes, sir,” the voice replied somewhat tentatively.

  “Great, Thanks. And, ah, still 2012, right?”

  “Ah, Yes, sir.”

  “Just checking,” I awkwardly grumbled, “Be right down. Tell O’Dargan to cool his jets. And make some more damn scones. I’m hungry.”

  “Yes, sir,” he replied amidst a few subtle chuckles. “Will do.”

  The creak of hurried footsteps moving down the hallway indicated he’d evidently had enough of my bizarre line of questioning. Exhaling a relieved sigh that I’d only slept for a couple hours and not another decade, I finished tying my boots while relishing in how absolutely refreshed I felt.

  There is truly nothing like a good rack session. Alive, dead, or un-dead. Trust me on that one. Still wearing my favorite Levis, I quickly grabbed the black tee shirt Rooster had left for me and slipped it on. Making the mental note that it was incredibly tight on my chest, shoulders, and biceps I couldn’t help but chuckle at the red Rooster logo and the slogan — ‘Crow Like You Gotta Pair. RoosterBragh 2012.’

  Standing up and powerfully stretching my arms, I could literally feel every muscle in my upper body flex and flare up in response. For the first time in a long damn time I felt good. Like me — the old me — the human me. As I pondered that for a quick second I had another thought.

  “The dream,” I muttered out loud.

  I didn’t have the dream. The haunting, incessant dream that foreshadowed my mortal death and current supernatural condition. With an elated breath that I’d finally shaken free of that particular subconscious tether, I felt a wide smile stretch across my face. Feeling rather good about myself, I confidently opened the door and crossed the threshold into the dark hallway when the sudden onslaught of a splitting headache stopped me dead in my tracks.

  The immediate and intense wave of crushing pain surging through my head felt like somebody was trying to drive an ice pick through one of my eye sockets and push it clear out the back of my skull. Instantly closing my eyes and dropping to a knee, I winced and grunted in complete agony, clutching my forehead with both hands in attempt to make it stop.

  But it didn’t stop. It got worse. A lot frigg’n worse. Unbearably worse.

  Feeling like my head was about to pop under the unimaginable force, I started screaming. For the record — it was a manly, throaty scream. More of a yell than a scream actually. Just so you know. At any rate, just as I felt like I couldn’t take anymore — it stopped. Rising to my feet and slowly opening my eyes, my befuddled brain struggled to process the unexpected scene laid out before me when the sound of a familiar voice sent a racing chill down my spine.

  “Welcome, Deacon. It is as I foretold. The Wrath has brought you to your knees. And here you are — at my feet. Now, Henry — Are you prepared to serve a true master — a just master — or do you choose the unnecessary path of torment as did your misguided brothers?”

  Dumbfounded and speechless, I stood motionless staring at the harrowing, crimson eyes of Azazel adorned in a white robed outfit and smugly pacing in front of a prisoner bound in heavy chains. Kneeling before him within a circle of purple-white flame in the center of a dark, musty room, the prisoner wore a cloak — a Deacons cloak.

  Staring insolently at Azazel, he bellowed, “Fuck You,” in a deep voice that rung with a heavy southern twang.

  “False bravado and eloquence. How unfortunate,” Azazel dryly replied, “Not unexpected however.”

  Motioning for one of his cronies to come forward, he whispered something to a man in a tactical uniform with a pair of swords strapped to his back in a crisscrossing pattern. Ironically, the guy looked a hell of a lot like Rooster except his blazing red hair was clipped tightly to his skull and a sharply cornered ginger goatee hung proudly from his chin.

  “Yes, Dominus,” Evil Rooster muttered offering Azazel a subservient bow. “I will see it done.” And quickly exited the scene.

  Still confused as all hell as to what was happening, I squinted in attempt to see anything beyond the dark shadows on the periphery of the flaming circle. As Azazel began to laugh, I was again drawn to his haunting silhouette as he further taunted the prisoner.

  “Well, perhaps this will persuade you to reconsider.”

  With a casual flick of his hand, the chains binding the prisoner released and fell to the stone floor with an ominous thud.

  “Arise, my dear Henry, and gaze upon the fallen mighty.”

  With a subsequent wave of his hand, a series of flaming circles began to ignite, one by one, around the floor of the peculiar room. Each circle contained a bound figure on their knees staring blankly into oblivion. Bound figures in cloaks. Deacons.

  As the pattern completed and each circle glowed in fervent purple flame — only two were vacant.

  “What have you done,” muttered the now standing, unbound Henry as he slowly spun around in his flaming prison, gazing blankly in utter disbelief as the scene slowly unfolded before him. In a defeated voice barely above a whisper, he simply said, “No. That’s — not possible,” as a look of absolute horror washed over his face.

  “Oh, Yes, Henry. Yes indeed. The possibilities a are endless!” Azazel replied with a boastful smile. Pointing to one of the empty circles, he said, “Would you care to take your rightful place in my collection? Or — are you now prepared to discuss an alternate arrangement?”

  As the scene started to blur, I felt the surging pain in my head again. Dropping to a knee and grasping my temple, I took one more determined look at the captive Deacon only to find him staring straight at me. As the chains rose from the floor with an unseen force and encased his hands and feet in the purplish-white flamed shackles, he took his place in the morbid collection and just blankly stared at me.

  His face. It was familiar — round with a short-cropped blonde beard and brilliant green eyes.

  Just as the scene completely faded to black and my eyes slid shut, it hit me. Henry. Henry Lee Smith III - Smitty.

  Son of a bitch.

  As the revelation hit me like a ton of bricks, my eyes shot open only to find Stephen standing opposite me in the hallway of the Quartermaster outside of my room.

  “You saw him,” he sternly said while fixing me with an intense, almost distraught gaze. Quickly helping me to my feet, he placed both hands on my shoulders. “Azazel. You saw him.”

  “Yeah — I saw him,” I grunted between heavy breaths, still reeling from the surreal experience. “I was there — I think.”

  “Where? Where Dean?” He frantically asked. “What did you See?”

  “I’m — not sure. A dungeon — maybe a cave,” I forced out while struggling to breathe and stand up under my own power. “It’s a prison. Circles — of purple fire.”

  “The holy flame. That — is not possible. A fallen angel cannot wield the holy flame,” he muttered to himself while shaking his head.

  “Smitty — He had Smitty. And the others. Deacons — shackled — bound. They were alive, but — something was wrong with them. They were out of it — like catatonic.”

  “How many?” He coldly asked as his grip tightened on my shoulders.

  “I — I’m not sure. They circled the room —”

  “How many?” He shouted as his eyes flashed with fury. “How many, Dean? How many did you see?”

  “I don’t know,” I awkwardly replied completely taken aback by his uncharacteristic behavior. “Maybe Twenty? Maybe more. He called it his collection. There — there was only one circle left empty.”

  Releasing the violent grip he had on my shoulders, he stood momentarily speechless and stared at the floor as his eyes danced with rapid thought. With the signature stoic mask returning to his face, he looked me squarely in the eyes and said, “The reckoning is near. If I understand what is happening — You will have more visions. Speak of them to no one.”

  Turning and taking a few steps down the hallway, his cloak manifested around his shoulders in a spectral flash and he was gone. Alt
hough completely taken aback by the exchange, I was once again impressed, as all hell, by Stephen’s ability to make an exit as I propped myself up against the wall, wondering what in the hell just happened. Hearing the sound of footsteps running down the hallway I looked up to see Rooster and another guy I didn’t recognize bounding toward me at great speed with weapons drawn and looks of terror.

  “Dean! You Ok? What’s going on?” Rooster said reaching me within a matter of seconds, and looking exceptionally red from head to toe.

  His unidentified buddy slid past me and entered my room with a pair of curved machetes at the ready like he was going to slay the first thing that moved.

  “I’m fine,” I muttered, trying to quickly recover from recent events. “Stubbed my toe. Hurt like hell.” Unfortunately, that was the first thing that came to mind.

  Lowering his sword as his skin instantly returned to a normal color, he dryly said, “You stubbed your toe?”

  “Yeah, ah, guess I’m still getting my bearings back. I’m fine. Sorry for the commotion,” I replied, trying to get off the topic as quickly as possible. “Hey, time for lunch?”

  “I didn’t realize the Seventh of Seven felt pain,” said the new guy, skeptically, as he casually walked out of my room and sheathed his blades in twin scabbards concealed on his torso.

  Offering a quick nod to the twenty-something newcomer, Rooster said, “Dean, this is Tiberius Jefferson.”

  “Tiberius, eh? Wow. Ok, Tiberius, try explaining that to my big toe. Probably never be the same. You guys ever considered painting the doorframe yellow? Maybe put a caution sign up? Damn thing came out of nowhere.”

  Chuckling a bit, new guy held out his hand, and said, “Call me Tango. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Giving my tee shirt a curious glance, he added, “Nice shirt.”

  “Dean. The pleasure’s mine. And, ah, thanks,” I said amidst subtle laughter while firmly grasping his hand, and taking in his six foot frame of lean muscle, urban fashionista attire, and meticulously styled light brown hair. “I take it you’re a cleric.”