They were garbled.
Distorted.
Distant.
Pushing myself off the ground I tried to get to my feet but couldn’t seem to get past my knees. I had no strength. My head felt heavy. So incredibly heavy. As my subdued gaze fell to the ground I realized why.
Despite my deteriorated sight, it was unmistakable. I was surrounded by a ring of purple-white fire. Holy flame.
The Deacon trap. I’d walked right into it.
Feeling myself steadily slipping into a complete state of void, I curled my hands into tight fists and tried my damnedest to focus my thoughts — focus my strength — focus on anything. My vision quickly degraded to nothing more than a psychedelic kaleidoscope of obscure colors and shapes. The only thing I could hear was a constant stream of white noise with occasional static mixed in.
It was a losing battle. I had nothing left.
Panic set in. Then anger. Then a string of mental obscenities that would have made a sailor cover his ears.
“No,” I repeated to myself in inevitable defeat.
Goddamit it all.
It was over.
I’d blown it.
Chapter 35
Lying powerless on the forest floor trying desperately to rationalize what was happening, I struggled to formulate a coherent thought. My mind was — jumbled. Random. Foggy. Trapped in a perpetual state of subdued consciousness.
Then, as if on cue, my hearing abruptly returned and my vision snapped back into focus.
“Arise and face your master,” I heard Azazel say with a content heir of superiority.
Upon his command, I felt myself effortlessly push off the ground and rise to my feet. Like a mindless drone, I subserviently bowed my head and turned to face him.
What the hell?
“What you’re experiencing is the divine affect of the holy flame,” he said contently. “I’m told it’s a rather strange sensation — to be imprisoned within your own body that is. And quite absolute I’m afraid. One of Father’s more devious concepts.”
Fleeting flashes of lucid thought raced through my head, but they vanished as quickly as they registered with my befuddled brain. The more I resisted, the more the purple flame lashed out and hissed like an implacable slave master forcing its supremacy upon me. Rewriting my thoughts. Beating me into submission.
Using all my remaining will, I called for the cloak but it didn’t come. Although I could still sense its presence — it was locked away. Hidden far from my reach.
A prisoner — as was I.
“Resistance, Dean, is as much pointless as it is hopeless,” Azazel said smugly. “But do not fret for it will soon be over. With the passing of each second, your conscious mind slips further under my control. Soon you will exist only to serve your master. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dominus,” I absently replied.
Dominus? What the hell?
“Excellent,” he said with a content smile bearing his impossibly white teeth. “I was concerned that you’d pose more of a challenge to break than the others. It appears I was wrong.”
With my gaze still emptily fixed on Azazel, the clamor of approaching footsteps was evident to my rear. Big footsteps. Presumably made by giant feet.
“How fortuitous,” Azazel said as his grin widened. “The trail of bread crumbs so skillfully laid out by Mr. Pothier was designed to lure one Deacon of great prominence into my lair — and by my good graces, I have drawn two.”
Gliding past me while triumphantly clasping his hands together, I mindlessly turned in my flaming prison to follow his movement like a puppet on a string. And despite my waning mental capacity, I felt a surge of anger pulse through my entire body at the sight of a badly beaten and completely catatonic Abernethy standing helplessly opposite me in his own circle of purple flame. Looming triumphantly behind him was none other than that son of a bitch Tiny, accompanied by the Evil Rooster character I’d seen in my vision. And forming a menacing skirmish line to their rear was a snarling brood of forty-or-so anakim brandishing all manner of medieval weaponry and dressed in nothing but sullied black tunics.
“The great and mighty Abernethy,” Azazel gloated. “It’s been too, too long. Seven hundred years if it’s been a day. Rosslyn Chapel if memory serves.”
“Aye, Dominus,” Abernethy mumbled blankly in a heavy Scottish brogue.
Staring hatefully at Big A for a long moment, Azazel said, “Before your mind fully collapses — know this, Deacon. You and your petulant underling will serve as the crowning jewels in my collection of Father’s noble assassins. And your gifts — your precious gifts — will be untimely ripped from the very fiber of your feeble human construct and rightfully bestowed upon a being worthy of their power. The reckoning is upon the race of man. My brothers will soon shed their bonds and vengeance will follow. You — have — failed.”
“It is as you say, Dominus,” Abernethy again muttered staring into nothingness.
“Yes,” Azazel delightfully snarled. “It is.” Turning his attention to Evil Rooster, he said, “Well done, Carrick.”
“Thank You, Dominus,” he replied very businesslike with a noticeable Irish inflection. “I do regret the Scotsman’s capture was not without loss. Many fell upon his sword before he relented to the holy flame.”
“Regrettable,” Azazel said with a slight hint of remorse. “But an acceptable sacrifice. Please see that our new additions take their proper place in the collection. Anak will accompany you as will Mr. Pothier. I shall join you in due time.”
“As you wish,” Carrick humbly replied with a clichéd bow. “And what of the others?”
“The others,” Azazel said somewhat rhetorically, shifting his attention back toward the woodline. “How terribly rude. I’d nearly forgotten about the remainder of our esteemed guests from the Seventh Realm.” Focusing specifically on Rooster, he said, “It appears fate has also brought your dear brother to our doorstep. Or do my eyes deceive?”
“It is he,” Carrick replied coldly as his eyes flashed a deep, burning red. “Our blood is that of kinsman — but a brother to me he is not.”
“Yes, Of course. A cleric of the Guild. A loathsome traitor to his race — his family,” replied Azazel with a hint of satisfaction. “Consequently, the path of betrayal ends in judgment. And his judgment, as with the others, can be nothing less than that of death. Do you concur?”
“A just sentence,” Carrick replied without emotion with his glowing eyes fixated on Rooster. “If I may be so bold, Domnius, I find it more than fitting these traitors be struck down by the very Deacon that led them into our humble sanctuary.”
“A brilliant offering,” Azazel said with a dark grin. “See it done, and conclude our business here.” Locking eyes with me he commanded, “Execute them — beginning with the liderc.” And casually strolled toward the Earthly portal until he faded from sight in a whooshing sound of unseen massive wings.
Upon his command, I again rotated within my flaming prison like a robot, and the harrowing sight of the team frozen in the obscure state of suspended animation made my stomach curl into a tight knot. They stood like surreal statues on the edge of the woodline completely powerless under the crushing force of Azazel’s dark dominance.
Following me with his eyes, Rooster was in mid-motion of throwing his hunting knife while simultaneously squeezing off a round from one of his pistols. Tango had both kukri knives clutched in a fighting stance with his entire lower body stuck mid-transition in mystical smoke form. Caveman’s mammoth battle axe was reared high above his head with Duncan frozen in a predatory lurch to his side. Coop had three broadheads drawn back on his bow while Stoner boldly held out his staff that pulsed with an orb of crackling blue energy.
Execute them.
Lowering my head, I felt my eyes squint into a piercing gaze and a spectral silhouette of pure white radiance form about my shoulders. Without my summoning, the cloak violently manifested and flared out like a caged animal, sending visible shock waves of
light and heat through the surrounding air. The otherworldly metal flowed down my forearms and encased my hands in seamless gauntlets as I clenched them into tight fists. Turning my hands toward the sky, dueling spheres of Gehenna fire slowly formed in my open palms. Slowly spinning as they grew, the fireballs hissed and sparked with intangible power.
Execute them.
Raising my head, I locked gazes with Rooster. Unable to move or speak, he simply returned my stare. Something about his eyes gave me pause. Gave me clarity.
It wasn’t fear.
Or regret.
Or anger.
It was more like sadness. Deep, resolute sadness.
But not for him.
For me.
“Oy vey, Bubbala. You look awful,” came a familiar voice from somewhere in the nether regions of my mind.
“M?” I cognitively asked as my head instantly cleared like somebody threw a bucket of cold water on my face.
“Of course it’s M,” she said matter of factly, “Mach shnel! Mach shnel! We don’t have all day here.”
Upon blinking my eyes, I was, surprisingly, no longer in the shadow realm. I was seated in a bustling diner sharing a booth with an incredibly well dressed Principality class angel, sipping on a cup of steaming black coffee. No longer sporting the gaudy sequined dress she had on the first time I’d met her, she donned a perfectly cut navy blue blazer. The highly pressed hot pink shirt underneath was unbuttoned in a fashionable yet very businesslike manner adding the signature ‘M’ splash of pizazz to the ensemble. Her once hive-piled hair was tightly pulled back on her head and wrapped into a petit bun. Completing the uber executive look was a pair of sleek reading glasses with a leopard print frame like something you’d see on a naughty librarian.
“Where the hell are we?”
“I’ve no idea,” she said looking around the diner in disgust. “But they could use a new cleaning crew. And this coffee is terrible. I could plotz. You hear me? Plotz!”
Having absolutely no idea what the hell was going on, I just stared at her waiting for the punch line.
“We’re in your noggin, Bubbala. I just popped in for a quick chat.” Looking around she added, “This place is bupkes. A figment of your imagination.”
“Bupkes,” I repeated rhetorically.
“Bupkes,” she emphasized. “You know — like prophecies.”
“Prophecies,” I muttered as the gears started turning.
Her faced curled into a cunning grin.
“Now on the rare occasion when prophecies are not bupkes — they may actually be quite insightful. Perhaps even provide a glimmer of hope when all appears woefully lost. That is, of course, if you take stock in such things, Bubbala.”
“Insightful?” I asked. “Wait — Are you telling me all that crap Fred was spouting off in the Quartermaster was true? And it was about this — Azazel’s shadow realm?”
“I am telling you nothing of the sort,” she replied dismissively. “Although, there does seem to be a rather discernible relevance in Frederick’s prophetic commentary to your current set of circumstances. Is there not?”
“You told me he was drunk,” I dryly muttered.
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” she replied tilting her head forward and peering at me over the rim of her glasses. “It’s been known to happen — on rare occasion mind you.”
Sitting in silence for a couple seconds, I replayed the various and assorted nonsense dispelled upon me by my least favorite prophet amidst his barrage of condescending outbursts. Thinking out loud, I muttered, “Fire. Blood. Rage. It will burn. By my hand — it will burn. Not beholden to that which binds. Its power is mine to command.”
“Son of a bitch,” I grumbled as a light bulb, the size of a hot air balloon, went off in my head. Locking eyes with Mariel, I said, “I know what I have to do.”
“Fabulous,” she replied while placing her coffee on the table. “Now go do it.”
Leaning across the table, she flicked me squarely in the forehead with her index finger, and yelled, “Mazeltov!”
As my eyes blinked, I was back in the shadow realm.
Or more appropriately, I was back in the shadow realm about to lob two soccer ball sized orbs of judgment fire at my friends while under the influence of a divine brainwashing. Rooster’s eyes flashed a blazing red as the fireballs spun in my hand like macabre pinwheels ready to break free from their tether.
Although I still felt the crushing dominance of the holy flame incessantly forcing its will upon me, the situation had changed. I knew something it didn’t.
Or at least I was pretty sure I did.
“Execute them, Deacon,” impatiently grunted Carrick, taking a step in my direction while drawing a sword from the pair crisscrossed on his back. “Do it. Now!”
“No,” I snarled forcing the words from my mouth with every ounce of will I could muster.
As a look of confusion mixed with intense aggravation formed on his face, the purple flame roared and thrashed in response to my defiance. Conversely, the cloak flared majestically about my shoulders sending waves of wrathful power cursing through my being.
It was protecting me — Aiding my resurgence.
As the battle for control of my mind raged within, my arms began to visibly shake. Every muscle in my body tensed. My head throbbed with wave after wave of acute, concentrated pain. I felt a stream of blood trickle from my nose and flow over my pursed lips. The very ground beneath me began to quake and fracture. And yet, my face curled into a defiant grin.
“Centurion! You will do as commanded,” bellowed Tiny knocking Evil Rooster out of the way and looming over me with unspeakable hatred radiating from his soulless black eyes.
As the holy flame wrapped around my legs and began to slither its way up my body like a nightmarish anaconda planning to crawl down my throat, I closed my eyes. Its mind numbing influence slammed my subconscious with the force of an avalanche forged of the highest mountain — crushing me in its wake. Burying my thoughts in a limitless surge of delusion. Throwing all of its primal power at me.
And it was right about then I did something unexpected.
Opening my eyes, I stopped fighting and let it in.
All of it.
What? Its not like I bet the entire future of mankind on the drunken, slurred ramblings of Freddy Binkowicz or anything.
Well, when you say it like that …
Chapter 36
For the record — opening the flood gates to a raging torrent of otherworldly matter that was hell bent on turning me into a supernatural vegetable was not something I’d be in a hurry to do again. Some cliché about desperate times and desperate measures is probably more than appropriate.
But I digress.
Barely holding the spinning fireballs at bay, I threw back my arms, and the incensed tendrils of purple flame leapt from the confines of my circular prison and poured into my being like water into a sponge. And for a long horrible second, it felt like I’d just inhaled a radiation filled mushroom cloud. It was not pleasant. When the entire circle had dissolved and presumably now writhing around my innards like a caged serpent, I forced a smile.
“Gotcha.”
Feeling the mental switch flip to the on-position and the calmative awareness wash over me, my perception of time slowed to a dramatic crawl until everything simply stopped.
Time — space — reality. Everything.
Except me. For I was no longer bound by the holy flame. At the moment — I owned its sorry ass. For better or for worse.
“My turn,” I grumbled.
Feeling the cloak ripple about my shoulders, a warm, almost electric sensation passed through my damaged body instantly healing my injuries and restoring my strength. Slowly pulling in a long, deliberate breath I cleared my mind and focused my thoughts.
In a moment far removed from physical reality, I looked inward and drifted through the dark corners of my subconscious self — searching for it. Searching for the Balance. The perfect balance between wr
ath and clarity.
Amidst a plain of infinite darkness, I was drawn to a kernel of pure white light on the very edge of my perception. It was subtle as first, as if dwarfed by an unseen dominance. But as I latched onto its presence with every remaining ounce of my will — it responded.
Hurtling from the deep recess of my soul in an explosion of light, it ripped through the black void like a force of nature. The darkness cowered in its wake as the rippling shockwave of illumination devoured the shadows. For the briefest of moments, a spectral sheen of purple white fire silhouetted the cloak as the holy flame dwindled and became one with the Wrath.
Its power was now mine to command. The slave had become the master. Things were about to get interesting.
Reveling as the combined force of the two otherworldly powers raced through my veins, I slowly rolled my neck back on my shoulders. My eyes hardened into a predatory squint. As my mouth curled into a dark grin, I watched in super slow motion as Tiny swung his ridiculously large battle axe toward my head. Evil Rooster was backpedaling trying to figure out what the hell just happened, and Skip looked like he was about to shit himself. The horde of giants to their rear — well, they just looked big, stupid, and generally confused in a menacing sort of way.
Taking a glance at my team still frozen in mannequin mode, I locked eyes with Rooster and gave him a casual wink. His glowing eyes instantly responded by returning to their normal blue.
Game - fucking - on.
Time resumed with a thunderous clap accompanied by the ear splitting cacophony of giant vocal chords, screaming, “Centurion!”
Side stepping as Tiny buried his axe two solid feet in the ground where I was standing a second earlier, I muttered, “How many frigg’n times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that, asshole?”
I’m pretty sure that dumb bastard was about to call me ‘Centurion’ yet again when the holy flame infused fireballs launched from my hands and seared a couple Frisbee-sized holes through his oversized pectorals. The look on his mammoth face went instantly blank as he simply erupted in a flash of judgment fire and was gone. Like in — gone gone.
Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1 Page 34