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

by James MacGhil

  “You heard me,” he replied while taking a healthy swig of booze. Momentarily at a loss for words, I fixed him with an intent stare. Slipping into a trancelike state, his gaze fell toward the bar and he methodically muttered,

  “The giants of old will grow legion upon the Earth,

  When Wrath comes upon the Seventh of the line of Seven.

  The fallen Sons will shed their earthly bond,

  And the screams of man will deafen the Realms of Heaven.”

  Returning to his normal, crotchety demeanor, he smiled and smugly said, “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what?” I sternly asked glaring at him taken aback by his recitation of what I presumed to be the Son of Wrath prophecy.

  “Know what …,” he mockingly muttered to himself shaking his head. Placing his lit pipe on the bar, he looked me squarely in the eye and barked, “The prophecy, you schmendrick! The rebirth of the anakim, the ascension of the fallen Watchers — all the other crazy shit going on.” Aggressively leaning toward me, he said with marked conviction, “I’ve seen it! Fire. Blood. Rage. It will burn.”

  Jumping to his feet and sticking a boney finger in my chest, he growled with gritted teeth, “By your hand — it will burn.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said pushing his hand away. “What’ll burn?”

  “All of it,” he blankly replied while slumping back on the stool and grabbing the bottle. “Everything.”

  As I sat in silence contemplating what in the hell he was going on about, the intensity of the moment was broken by a familiar whisper-like shriek and a blast of wind on my back.

  “Frederick Binkowicz! Oy gavalt,” exclaimed Mariel as she appeared on the stool next to Fred and glared disgustingly at the half eaten plate of bacon. “You certainly are not keeping kosher.”

  In a flash of light, his plate of prized pig evaporated from the bar and the bottle of liquor vanished from his hand.

  Not reacting in the least, Fred shot her a dirty look and despondently grumbled, “What the hell do you care, M? A couple slices of bacon never killed a Jew the last I checked. Get over it already!” Getting to his feet in a drunken haze, he threw on his overcoat, grabbed his pipe, and faced me with a strangely genuine look on his face. “There’s one more thing.”

  “Ok.”

  “That which binds,” he muttered in a somewhat sober tone. “You are not beholden to it.”

  “Come again?”

  “You are not beholden to it,” he repeated ignoring my question. “Its power — is yours to command.”

  Returning to his crotchety self, he then staggered toward the door and disappeared into the wintry, Boston night. Not really sure what else to say, I just sat there for a long moment looking at M with a blank look.

  “Poor Frederick. He’s a terrible, terrible nudnik. It’s not his fault, Bubbala,” she said, shaking her head with a look of solemn concern. “To be a prophet of the Father is to shoulder a grave burden.”

  “A prophet,” I muttered. “Fred — is a prophet?”

  “Of course he is,” she quickly replied while folding her hands on the bar. “Not a particularly bad one either. But, like all prophets — he doesn’t know bupkes. They only See shreds of things to come. One drop in a sea of possibilities.”

  Thinking back to the conversation with Stephen during the ‘tea party’ at Raven Spire, I stared at my empty mug and asked, “What else does the Son of Wrath prophecy foretell — about me?”

  “Why do you concern yourself with such things, Bubbala?” She said with a somewhat solemn look that seemed a bit atypical for Mariel. “Prophecies are simply words on a parchment.” With a swift hand gesture, she added, “Nothing more. Bupkes.”

  “Fred just told me ‘it would burn.’ By my hand, it would burn,” I said meeting her soft yet pensive gaze. “And what the hell was he going on about before he walked out? What does any of it mean?”

  “Well, it could mean that Frederick had an incredibly powerful vision of your path,” she said earnestly. “But more than likely — it’s an indication the poor shlep drank too much. Are you not listening to me? It’s bupkes, fersthay? Period — End of story.”

  With intense consternation I simply sat there stewing on the fact that M was clearly not telling me something. As if reading my thoughts, she gracefully transitioned to the stool next me, in a fluid flash of light, and placed her hand on my forearm.

  “Don’t confuse the words of prophets with your chosen path, Bubbala,” she said with a warm smile. “It’s not good for the digestion.”

  Upon her touch I felt a serene sensation wash over me and couldn’t help but chuckle a bit as I muttered, “Fair enough.”

  Feeling the need for another frosty beverage, I looked around the massive room to find it completely empty with exception to the two of us. Figuring it was just bad business to leave the bar untended, I casually hopped to the other side and held my mug under a wooden keg labeled RoosterBragh Red Ale.

  “Care to join me for a drink?” I called back to M as I grabbed a second mug and began pouring. When she didn’t answer I turned my head back toward the bar only to find an empty stool where she sat mere seconds earlier.

  “Like the wind,” I grumbled under my breath. “More for me.”

  Jumping back to my stool with two man sized beers and a strong desire to rapidly consume both of them, the booming disembodied voice of my favorite divine bowling ball echoed through the massive room scaring the ever living shit of me.

  “Deacon Robinson, the archdeacon requests your presence in the Reliquary.”

  Awkwardly juggling the mug that nearly flew from my hands, I grumbled, “Seriously? Can’t it wait a minute? I got a beverage here, Skyphos.”

  “Would you like me to inform the archdeacon that you are indisposed?”

  Begrudgingly placing the RoosterBragh on the bar, I had a quick vision of catching a log in the side of the head and muttered, “Nope. On my way.”

  Quickly slugging back the first mug, I longingly looked at the second, and said, “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”

  Unlike the last time I was in the Reliquary, it was crammed full of people and hopping like a Night at the Roxbury minus the disco ball, thumping music, and two dudes bobbing their heads to the beat. Every desk surrounding the floating command bridge was occupied by at least three Guild members furiously working the virtual screens and talking loudly on old-fashioned telephones while scribbling notes.

  The larger than life tV monitors lining the walls flitted with various streams of data, maps pulsing with countless dots and concentric circles, and live teleLink feeds from dozens of field operatives in undisclosed locations. Although I’d seen several military war rooms in action, I’d never seen anything quite like this. It was like Captain Jean-Luc Picard and Number One were having a frigg’n party with Dr. Strangelove on the holodeck. Looking around in complete sensory overload I was snapped back into the moment by a bellowing Scotsman yell, “Dean! Up here. Hurry, lad!”

  Racing up the thirty feet of spiral staircase in a matter of seconds, I reached the command bridge to find Abernethy, Rooster, and Tango huddled around a large floating screen displaying a wiry gent with a cleanly shaven head sporting a faded, and somewhat tattered, crimson hoodie with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders. His rather impressive, and heavily tattooed biceps, combined with intense brown eyes, scraggly red goatee, and cheek full of chewing tobacco gave him some pretty legit ‘He might be a Red Neck’ credibility. It also appeared he had a stout longbow and quiver of curious looking broad-head arrows slung across his back.

  Reaching the group, I heard him say with a thick southern drawl, “Don’t know what to tell Y’all. We were chasing our tails trying to figure out how that anakim pack ported to Tallahassee right under our noses when Smitty showed up.” Pausing to spit some tobacco juice, he said, “He wanted to see the farm on the outskirts of town where the biggins chowed down on the fifty-some-odd cattle. Kept saying we were mis
sing something. Truth be told, he was dagum obsessed over it. Once we got there, he started acting all squirly. Got real anxious. Drew his sword and walked off into the wood line. Told us to wait for him.”

  “Was that the last you saw of him, Coop?” Asked a clearly troubled Abernethy.

  “Yessir, that was last night. Haven’t seen ‘em since. He ain’t answering teleLink either.” With a look of sincere concern, he asked, “Has he checked in with Y’all?”

  “Nae,” Big A muttered after a prolonged sigh. “We’ve not heard from him in near three days now. Nor is he visible to Skyphos.” Frustratingly sighing again, he tentatively asked, “Did he say anything else? Mention — a coin, perhaps?”

  “Nossir,” Coop replied, very southernly, while shaking his head. “That was it. He just up and left.”

  “Damn it all,” grumbled Abernethy under his breath averting his gaze from the screen. Focusing again on the unidentified arrow toting country boy, he said, “Mind yerself, Cooper. Stay in close contact. Trust no one without good reason.”

  “Durn skippy, boss. I’ll be aw’ite. Y’all watch your back.”

  As the screen faded, Rooster leaned over to me with a grave look and said, “That was Cooper Rayfield — the cleric that oversees the southern region of the US.” Pausing to compose himself, he said, “Smitty’s gone, Dean. It’s happened again.”

  As the vision of the flaming prison and collection of shackled Deacons flashed through my thoughts, I felt a lump form in my throat as I stood in uncomfortable silence. Desperately wanting to tell them what I’d seen — what I knew, I said nothing.

  Turning to the face the group, Abernethy loomed in brooding defeat with his head hung low for a few awkward moments.

  “Henry’s fallen, lads,” he said in a dejected tone. “The black souled bastarts ended him. May this be the last bloody time the Maradim robs us of a kinsman.” Turning to Rooster and Tango, he grumbled, “I need to see the Alpha.”

  As his cloak manifested upon his massive shoulders in a spectral flash, he barked, “We will morn for Henry when the ground runs red with the bastarts blood! Find them, lads! Find where they skulk. The fight’s at our very doorstep.”

  With a deep scowl plastered across his face, he turned and faded into the doorway that instantly manifested to his rear and was gone in a brief flash of white light.

  “Sorry about Smitty, man,” Tango said turning to Rooster and grasping him on the shoulder. “Never thought anything could take him down. Toughest son of a bitch I’ve ever known.”

  Momentarily at a loss for words, Rooster’s skin turned exceptionally red as he blankly stared at the giant tV monitor covering the wall to his front while shaking his head. Figuring it was best to leave him be, Tango again patted him on the shoulder, and said, “I’m gonna port to Tallahassee and go through the throneView feed again with Coop. Smitty’s right. We’re missing something here. Call you in fifteen.”

  Giving me a humble nod, he disappeared through a doorway that subtly manifested near the stairway of the command bridge and faded across the threshold.

  Not acknowledging my presence in the least, a sullen Rooster stared at the screen in deep thought while occasionally muttering something to himself. After what seemed like an eternity, his skin returned to a normal shade as he turned to me, and said, “Doesn’t make any sense. Smitty represents the fifth Deacon in five years that the Seventh Realm has lost. It’s always the same. One minute they’re fine. The next — gone. Off the grid. Vanished. Ended. Dead. Shouldn’t be possible.”

  “Five Deacons,” I muttered. “That would mean —”

  “That’s right, Dean. Only two remain in the Seventh Realm. Abernethy — and you.”

  “What about the other Realms?” I said picturing the circle of Azazel’s captives. “How many Deacons are left of the forty nine?”

  “Don’t know,” he replied shifting his attention back to the mass of tV monitors covering the wall. “That’s not exactly common knowledge. The archdeacons play stuff like that pretty close to the vest. I mean, there’s been rumors of losses across the Seven Realms but nothing definitive.” Reaching into the floating virtual base console, he began to flip some semi translucent tiles of data through the air to his front. “It’s been consistent for the past fourteen years — Azazel and his Maradim get stronger and we get weaker. He’s systemically decimating us. Don’t know how — but he is.”

  “Attrition strategy,” I said somewhat under my breath.

  “Seems it. Leveling the playing field for an all out assault on Tartarus with a shit ton of anakim and rogue gothen. Azazel won’t stop until the fallen Watchers, his twisted brothers, are freed. He’ll raze the Earth with a smile on his face to make it happen. And without the Deacons to stop him, he might actually pull it off this time.”

  “What do you know of the holy flame?” I inadvertently asked while contemplating the doomsday scenario.

  “Not much,” he replied while giving me an inquisitive glance. “Old Testament stuff. Powerful. Sort of like Gehenna fire but worse. According to lore it can literally strip angels of their grace. Far as I know, it can only be summoned by two beings. The Father himself — and the archangels. Why do you ask?”

  As I fumbled for an answer that wouldn’t seem any more suspicious than asking the question in the first place, we were interrupted by Skyphos.

  “Pardon me, Rooster, There is an incoming teleLink from Cleric Jefferson. Would you like me to connect you?”

  ““That was quick. Yes Please,” he replied immediately shifting his attention from me to the translucent screen manifesting to our front. As a vision of Tango standing next to the previously identified Cooper Rayfield came into focus, he said, “Please tell me you got something.”

  “I got something,” Tango said with a mixture of excitement and intensity. “The fucking Skipper. He was here — in Tallahassee, the day before the anakim showed up.”

  “Wait — what? You sure?” Asked Rooster as his skin again started to glow with a pronounced red sheen.

  “It was him aw’ite,” said Coop while messing around with a hand held computer looking device. “Didn’t put two and two together the first time we watched the download. Sending it your way now.”

  As a second holographic screen materialized, a video of a little old Chinese lady getting out of a rusted, piece of shit pick-up truck in the middle of a field of cows came into perfect view. Hobbling around the dirt road for a minute or two, she got back in the truck and drove off. Whole thing was over in about thirty seconds.

  “Now, watch this,” Coop said while swiping his hand over the screen of his wizbang gadget. “This happened about five hours later.”

  A scene of the same dirt road appeared but now displayed a farmer atop a big-ass tractor towing a trailer full of hay bails. Just as he was about to pull out of the frame, a metallic blue Jaguar XK convertible, with the top down, pulled up next to him. Behind the wheel was a smoking hot brunette in a yellow bikini top that didn’t leave much to the imagination. After a brief conversation that mostly involved the farmer ogling her tits and smiling profusely, she drove off in a cloud of dust waving at him.

  “Please tell me that Uncle Skip was the farmer and not the chick,” I muttered to Rooster. Ignoring me, he continued to intently focus on the screen.

  “And finally, give this a look see. Two hours later. Right before nightfall,” Coop said while sending over the last video clip. Waltzing down the same country road was the familiar slovenly Boston security guard dressed in faded overalls and a straw hat. Toting a sixer of beer and a box of fried chicken he casually strolled into the field and disappeared into the surrounding wood line.

  “Son of a bitch. Skip’s with the Maradim. I don’t fucking believe it. I’m gonna rip his head off with my bare hands,” growled Rooster in an unfamiliar guttural voice as he turned unnaturally red from head to toe and clenched his fists.

  Giving him a triple take, I swore his tee shirt got tighter as he literally grew in he
ight and girth for a quick second. Somewhat startled, I blurted out, “Are you OK?”

  Letting out a deep sigh, he replied in his normal demeanor, “Yeah, I’m fine,” and instantly returned to normal. Shifting his attention to Tango and Coop, he said, “Good work. We’ll take it from here. Keep digging. Call me if you find anything else.” As the screen faded, Rooster said, “Skyphos, Please give me a location on Uncle Skip —”

  “One step ahead of you, Cleric,” Skyphos boomed cutting him off in mid-sentence. “Philbert Amoury Pothier. Alias: Skipper or Uncle Skip. Classification: Metamorph. Current Location: 650 Columbus Avenue - Apartment Number 263, Boston, Massachusetts. There appears to be significant warding about his dwelling.”

  “Got it. Thanks, Sweetie,” muttered a focused Rooster while zooming the large screen map to the apartment building on Columbus Ave and pulling out a mini-computer looking device, similar to Coop’s, from the pocket of his shorts.

  “You’re welcome. And do not refer to me as Sweetie.”

  Giving Skyphos a sarcastic nod, he held the device to his ear like a phone, and said, “Hey, it’s me. Need your help taking down some wards. Where you at?” Pausing to listen for a quick second, he replied, “Ok, good. Bring the Magic Bus.” Pausing again, he said, “Perfect. Twenty minutes. I’ll send the address.”

  Ending the call and flipping his hand at the map on the gigantic tV monitor, it literally jumped from the large screen and dove into his pocket computer. Again stunned by the surreal technology, I inquisitively asked, “Is that one of those ‘smart phone’ things you were talking about earlier?”

  “Nope. This is a whole new level of nepher tech,” he said while casually sliding the James Bond contraption back in his pocket and starting toward the command bridge stairs.

  “Do I get one?”

  “Not a chance,” he quickly replied while producing a much lower tech, plastic device from his pocket and tossing it to me. With a snide smirk, he said, “Baby steps … I made you this nice flip phone to compliment your twentieth century outlook on life.”