Keeping a healthy distance from the incredibly pissed off, uni-legged giant bleeding out on the ground, I replied, “Does it involve you insulting my sword and/or my ability to use it properly?”
“Well, to be fair, it is a wee sword,” he said while comparing the spatha to his claymore and chuckling. “But my point is this, Deanie. Ye have the strength of ten Deacons — that much is clear — but even you cannot defeat an army of anakim with just a sword, yer fists, and some puggled banter. And that’s assuming yer swordsmanship was not the equivalent of a piece a’ piss.”
Making the mental note to ask him about that whole ‘piece of piss’ comment at a later time, I knew exactly what he was getting at.
“Gehenna fire,” I muttered, somewhat rhetorically, while meeting his eyes.
“Aye. Unlike the rest of us, you’ve been graced with the ability to wield it well before yer time — with a force equal to that of the Alpha.”
“I can’t,” I quickly replied. “Not yet.”
“If yer afraid to try — you will ne’er succeed,” he answered in a soft, fatherly tone.
“I can’t control it,” I shot back instantly overcome with unyielding doubt as the horrific image of the vindictive pillars of flame devouring the church in Brezovo Polje raced through my thoughts.
“Nae, you can control it. It’s in yer heid.”
“My heed?”
“Aye, yer heid.” Reading my apparent blank look, he frustratingly added, “Yer heid, lad! The oof-lookin’ thing sitting atop yer shoulders.”
“My head,” I muttered as a light bulb went off. “Right. Got it.”
“Control the Wrath. Command the power,” he stoically replied while tapping his sword on the arena floor. “Do not fear what you are.” Slapping me forcefully on the shoulder, he added, “And don’t think you’d be the first Deacon to set the Dreghorn alight.”
Resting the claymore on his shoulder, he held out his left hand and the argent metal morphed into a translucent, ethereal material with a spectral flash. Holding out his palm, a perfect sphere of swirling white flame manifested and hovered for a quick second before launching from his hand and blasting Stumpy, until very recently known as Hans and formerly Colossal Bad Guy Number One, squarely in the chest. Poor bastard didn’t even have a chance to scream before his massive, uni-legged frame flashed a brilliant white and dematerialized into nothing. Gone.
Completely dismissing the mind boggling, arcane feat like it was nothing more than blowing his nose, he said, “That’s a wee drop in the bucket to what you’re capable of. Find the Balance, lad. The fire will come.”
“Understood,” I said nodding acknowledgement.
“Pure dead brilliant,” he muttered taking a few steps backward. “Because the anakim are not the only beasties ye need to concern yerself with.”
“Awesome,” I grumbled thinking that I was in for a long afternoon.
Chapter 21
Figuring it was a good idea to heed Abernethy’s s mug warning, I quickly turned to find faux-Tiny still laid up in a motionless heap on the arena floor. Picking up movement to my right, the cloak stirred uncomfortably about my shoulders as my latest opponent came into focus. But this time, it wasn’t a giant.
It was a man of average height and weight casually dressed in khakis, a button down shirt, and tweed sport coat. Completing the look with some wire rimmed glasses and cute haircut sporting an abundance of gel, he looked like a frigg’n college professor. With a somewhat dry look about him, he slowly approached me, seemingly unarmed. Something was off about him though. His aura was wrong — wrought with a dark energy shadowed by claws and fangs. And death. Remembering Big A’s earlier commentary and putting two and two together, I said, “So this is a gothen.”
“One type, Aye. The gothen class nephilim are the dark creatures of legend and lore. The wretched things that go bump in the night. Beasties, lad. Aberrations of the hybrid breeding. Kin of the anakim, carried into the post flood world with a keen appetite for human flesh and souls that are black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat. The heart and soul of the Maradim army.”
“Awesome,” I dryly said. “Beasties, eh? This guy looks pretty normal.”
“Most will appear human until they take form. Others not so.”
Meeting the intense gaze of Professor Snaggletooth, I said, “You said he’s one type of gothen. How many are there?”
“All and all, there are five hundred and sixty-three primary species. The variations from cross breeding and mutations thereof are anybody’s guess. The Guild stopped keeping track of the sub-classes some four centuries ago.”
“What?” I blurted out. “Five hundred and sixty-three species — Fucking seriously?”
“Aye,” he said amidst a chuckle. Nodding at the Professor slowly making a perimeter around us, he added, “This particular scunner is a draugr class — descended from the line of Nimrod — the cursed son of Ham. Feeding on the very life essence of man, the draugrs are a right nasty blight.”
“The life essence of man,” I muttered under my breath trying to process the information.
“Aye, but mostly they have a special thirst for blood. In Scottish lore they’re called the Baobhan Sith. But you’ll know them better as —”
“Vampires,” I said cutting him off as it all started to make a semblance of sense. “Unbelievable. So, the whole ‘they burst into flames in daylight’ thing is bullshit, eh?”
“Aye,” he replied laughing heartily. “Garlic, nor holy water, nor a wooden stake in the heart will do a wee bit of shite. Neither are they un-dead nor turn into bats nor slumber in coffins.”
Completing his menacing circle and taking a post next to the still slumbering Tiny, the Professor simply stood there ominously as his aura fluctuated from that of a dark gray to a deep crimson red. Hearing footsteps to our rear, I turned to find a six foot something, burly looking character in jeans, a tight tee-shirt showing off his muscular torso, and a baseball cap strolling rather casually toward our location in the center of the Dreghorn. With a pronounced five o’clock shadow on his face, he took position adjacent the draugr and stared condescendingly at me with arms folded on his impressive chest.
“Another draugr?”
“Nae,” Abernethy casually replied glancing at the newcomer. “A lycaon.”
With an aura similar to the draugr, the lycaon seemed a bit more on the beastly end of the spectrum. A combination of ferocity, self-assurance, and primal strength emanated from his being. Without a doubt — something animalistic laid in wait beneath the skin.
“Fearless creatures they are,” Big A said continuing with his explanation. “Carry the curse of the wolf. Their nature compels them to hunt — kill — devour. Foul gits. Fast healers. Short tempers.”
“That’s cute,” I dryly muttered, “Vampires and werewolves. Feel like I’m in a bad eighties movie. What next …”
Evidently not clear that it was more a rhetorical question, two additional dark aura’d cronies approached from our right and took position next to Teen Wolf Senior and the Professor of Applied Bloodletting. The first, a vertically challenged yet devilishly handsome gent sporting blue board shorts and a really obnoxious Hawaiian shirt. Not sure he could have looked any more non-threatening if he tried. Taking his position, he even offered me a polite bow and courteous nod.
And the second, a tall, slender blond bombshell with high cheek bones and brilliant blue eyes all dolled up in black leather pants, knee length biker boots, and a white tank top that was delightfully four sizes too small. Artfully decorating her sculpted arms were a series of interwoven black, glyph-like, tattoos that elegantly flowed from the back of her hands to the very peak of her shoulders and well into the crook of her neck.
“Let me guess,” I said pointing at the latest edition to the Cirque de Neph. “He’s the infamous Magnum PI of the Shire and she’s the Wicked Swedish Bikini Model of the West.”
“Nae,” grumbled my Scottish mentor while shaking his head. Giving me a
n exasperated look, he said, “Ye truly are a daft lad.”
“Thank You,” I said snidely.
“Was not a compliment,” he grumbled in return.
“Oh, well, no thank you then.”
The icy stare followed by the thought of getting blind-sided by another log sized projectile in the chest wiped the smug look off my face rather quickly. Hanging his head and momentarily staring at the ground, he grunted under his breath, “Bloody hell, he’s a daft one.”
As he quickly composed himself and was about to school me on the latest editions to the gothen family reunion, yet another nepher strolled into the arena.
A nepher that I knew.
“Brought out the usual suspects I see,” Rooster said to Big A as he walked toward us and glanced at Tiny, the draugr, the lycaon, and the yet unidentified Evil Hooters Girl. Upon seeing the dapper, Hawaiian shirt clad little fellow who may have stood five feet tall if wearing a pair of eight-inch heels — which he wasn’t, he exclaimed, “Oh snap, you brought out a korrigan? Not holding back, eh?”
“Aye,” Abernethy grunted seemingly very happy that he was no longer stuck alone with me in the Dreghorn. “Dean is about to talk him into submission with sage insight and dighted wit. Where ye been, Jackie?”
“Sorry, boss. Been in the armory. Had to finish up that special project for the newbie here.”
“The thunder stick — Good timing. He may just need it after all. Does it work?”
“Absolutely,” Rooster replied with an unconvinced look. “Well, I’m pretty sure. Actually didn’t have time to run the full round of tests … but it should be fine.”
“Thunder stick?” I said trying to break into the conversation.
“Yeppers,” Rooster replied trading glances with Big A.
When no further information was offered I gave them both a glare of frustrated suspicion, and said, “Ok. Whatever. What the hell’s a korrigan then?” Pointing at the pint-sized surfer, I asked, “Are you telling me Mr. Frodo over there’s a gothen? Looks like more of a carny for Christ’s sake. Small hands. Smells like cabbage.”
Although I got a mild chuckle out of Rooster, Big A was evidently all set with my ‘dighted wit’ and didn’t so much as crack a smile.
“Taking the form of wee humans, the korrigan class are forest dwellers at heart. Kin to a dwarf but stroppy as a hive of bees set aflame. Connivers, thieves, and knaves. Obsessed with wealth. Always looking to strike a deal. The wee blights thrive off the pain and suffering they inflict on the race of man. They’ll be yer best friend until ye cross’em. Then their true form comes out. Ruthless bastarts — the korrigans. Vicious.”
“Ruthless and vicious, eh? Ok, take your word for it,” I muttered, completely unconvinced, as the little fellow waived congenially at me. “And Daisy Duke? What’s her deal?” I asked while shifting focus to tall, blond, and leather.
Another inadvertent chuckle from Rooster earned him a stiff slap on the back of the ‘heid’ from the archdeacon.
“Aye, the best for last. That is no lassie, mate. It’s a varangian. The berserkers of Norse legend — twisted with fury and spawn of wild rage. In days of old it was believed they wore the pelts of bears into battle, which gave them super human strength and speed.”
Taking a closer look at the varangian, I was drawn to its aura. Similar to the others it was dark, but unlike the others it swirled and surged with madness. Like it was perpetually fighting itself to restrain the endless fury caged within.
“But lad,” said Abernethy continuing with his lecture, “they were not covered in pelts. It was their true form. Hexed of the bear they are nigh unrivaled in strength, and averse to pain. Fiercely loyal to their master ’til death do part, they are. The ultimate blunt instrument in battle.”
“So, the hot chick — is a bear monster. Didn’t see that coming,” I grumbled fixated on the indescribable violent nature of the varangian’s aura lurching and lashing out with claw tipped tendrils. Looking around the Dreghorn for the next edition to the party, I said, “Ok. So, who’s next?”
“This lot will do for now,” said Abernethy, taking a few steps backward. “Clear yer mind, lad. And ne’er underestimate yer enemy, nor their fear and hatred of what ye represent. Prepare yerself. Ye have ten seconds before I let ‘em loose.”
Giving Abernethy a stern nod, I turned to face the Not So Fantastic Four and lowered my head to focus. As the serene sensation washed over me, I felt the Wrath welling in the deep recess of my soul, and raised my head as a mild grin stretched across my face.
For my right hand, I willed the argent metal gauntlet into being and felt it manifest with a spectral flash. Reaching back and drawing the spatha, I felt the distinct hum of energy as it released from the scabbard and readied for battle. For my left hand, I called for the ethereal gauntlet and watched with great anticipation as it manifested and covered my hand in shimmering, translucent energy.
Holding my palm toward the enemy, I called for the judgment — Gehenna fire. Painfully squinting in concentration, the gauntlet ignited with subtle flame, and a perfect sphere of wraithlike white fire carefully formed and slowly spun in my hand. Crackling and hissing with abstract heat and intangible power, it waited with perfect patience to be released upon my enemies.
“Well done, laddie,” proudly bellowed a beaming Abernethy. Turning to Rooster, he muttered under his breath, “Maybe we won’t need that wee thunder stick of yours after all.” Focusing his attention back to me, he said, “Now focus.”
With a wave of his hand, the odd collection of gothen sprang into action, and although I hate to admit it — I was not expecting what followed.
The first to act was the korrigan. And believe it or not, the son of a bitch shrunk a solid two feet. Within the blink of an eye he nephed out, and the kindly, vertically challenged little fellow was replaced by a gnome-like, squat creature of leathery dark brown skin with a ridiculously large head and pointy ears. As his grotesque face stretched into a devious smile, bearing two rows of unevenly spaced jagged teeth, he launched at me brandishing a small dagger he pulled from somewhere in his absurd outfit.
Covering the ten feet between us in the matter of a split second, I barely dodged its knife as the little bastard raked a clawed hand across my face as he streaked by my head in a blur of motion. Caught completely off guard, I awkwardly spun to the right and inadvertently launched the ball of Gehenna fire in the direction of Abernethy and Rooster. As they ducked and leapt to safety, I watched, in dismay, as the fire bolt sailed clear into the distant stadium seats of the Dreghorn and obliterated an entire section in a white-blazed mushroom cloud of rock and smoke. It would have been really frigg’n impressive if not a complete blunder.
“Oops,” I muttered while shooting them a ‘my bad’ glance.
Jumping to their feet, they both took several more steps backward.
Turning to Rooster, Big A grumbled, “On second thought — Get the thunder stick ready.”
Figuring my fire throwing exploits were still not quite ready for prime time, I called for the ashen hellstone and felt it encase my left hand as I swatted at the korrigan, who made a second pass at my face with blinding speed. Dodging his blade at the last second, I caught the little fucker in the ribcage with my gauntlet and sent him hurling through the air like a gremlin-sized football until he crashed to a halt on the Dreghorn floor behind his pals. As a drop of blood trickled onto my lips, I willed the stone gauntlet into momentary retreat and placed my bare hand on the sizable gash running down the side of my face.
“Focus! Stay in Balance or bleed at the hands of yer opponent,” called out Abernethy from the peanut gallery. “Know yer enemy. See their attack.”
Nodding acknowledgement, I quickly cleared my thoughts as a stiff electric like jolt of energy passed through me and the wound instantly healed upon itself. Getting back on his feet, which actually looked more like hooves, the korrigan produced a second dagger and readied for another assault. Taking the creepy little bastards flank,
the lycaon and varangian joined the fray and fixed me with a pair of predatory glares.
“Awe, Yer in fer it now, laddie,” bellowed Abernethy chuckling.
Muttering something under his breath to Rooster, they both took a few more steps backward. Highly pissed that I just let Nepher Smurf get the better of me, I set my feet into a bold offensive stance and tightened the grip on the spatha as wave after wave of surging adrenaline pumped through my system. Covering my left hand with the ethereal gauntlet, I held my palm toward my attackers and called for the fire.
This time though, I didn’t conjure a well formed sphere of flaming destruction — it was more of a volcano-like column of fiery apocalypse. And it immediately hurled itself from my gauntlet like a poorly aimed scatter shot and blasted erratically through the formation of gothen, not really doing much of anything except piss them off. Not exactly the desired effect.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered as they gave me a collective snide glance.
Not waiting around for me to figure out how in the hell to actually wield the Gehenna fire, the varangian nephed out first. And damn — it was a frigg’n spectacle. The six-foot Norse goddess of tits and leather morphed into a nightmarish eight-foot beast with the head of a rabies stricken black grisly and the humanoid furry body to go along with it. Standing rather intimidatingly on two ginormous, clawed feet, she held out her powerful arms, which were a creepy mixture of flesh and animal pelt as she let out a roar that literally shook the ground of the arena. Dropping to all fours, her claw tipped, paw-like hands ripped into the stone floor, and her mouth foamed with unbound rage as she continued to growl at me like a frigg’n — well, like a frigg’n supernatural bear creature. Not entirely sure why the whole thing surprised me actually.
“And here I was thinking the wet tee-shirt contest was about to start,” I muttered while taking in the whole beastly package.
Taking a few predatory steps in my direction, she was joined by a really frigg’n pissed off evil midget, wielding a couple of daggers and primed for round two. Not wanting to miss out on the melee nor take second hat to his beastly buddies, the lycaon started sprinting at me with unnatural speed. Literally taking form in mid-stride, the son of bitch’s face morphed into a menacing maw bearing super-sized canine fangs, quickly followed by the rest of its head going full-on wolf. With eyes as black as pools of oil and thirsting for the kill, it charged at me in a blur of motion. Dropping to all fours within about five feet from me, his clothes ripped from his body in tattered fragments. Fully morphed into a steroid infused super wolf, the four hundred pounds of fangs, claws, and hybrid mutation then made one hell of a ferocious strike at my jugular with his gaping maw stretched out like a shark about to inhale a seal.
Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1 Page 21