Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1
Page 1
RISE OF THE
GIANTS
RISE OF THE
GIANTS
The Guild of Deacons, Book 1
JAMES MACGHIL
Copyright © 2015 James MacGhil
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0996193502
ISBN-13: 9780996193504
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015904285
Stephen Gilmore, Tallahassee, FL
This book is dedicated to the lasting memory of Dean Robinson Gilmore and his unrivaled legacy of quick wit, bad jokes, and relentless sesquipedalian prose. Be thou at peace.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgements
The giants consumed all the work and the toils of men. And when men could no longer sustain them, the giants turned against them and devoured mankind. Then the Earth laid accusation against the lawless ones.
-The Book of Enoch
PROLOGUE
Everybody has dreams. Some pleasant. Some not so much. Either way, dreams are truly an interesting phenomenon. The strange and unusual places your mind drifts when not tethered to the confines of reality. Subconscious manifestations of your deepest desires or darkest anxieties. An infinite possibility of surreal concepts creeping from the seldom used nether regions of your mind.
Some folks believe that dreams are visions or premonitions, possibly even messages from beyond the grave or a higher power. I, personally, know that to be complete bullshit. If dreams were any sort of glimpse into things to come, there would be beer. And women. And more beer. Preferably in that order.
It is also said that the average person has three to five dreams per night. I’m evidently far below average in that regard. I have only one. It’s always the same.
I saw through his eyes. Heard through his ears. Felt through his perception of reality. It began as I watched him brutally beaten at the hands of his captors, then, without warning, I was inexplicably and unwillingly thrust into his consciousness. I equated it to riding shotgun in someone else’s head.
The ultimate first person shooter experience where you had absolutely no control over what was happening, nor any idea what you were doing there in the first place. A generally unsettling way to spend your evenings, if you get my drift.
Never complete segments — more like fragments jumping between time and place completely out of context. Sort of like a badly spliced movie where the screen went blurry, and the speakers hissed with static during the poorly timed scene transitions. A highlight reel where you got just enough of what was happening to be exceedingly interested, but left thoroughly confused in the end. Frustrating as all hell.
After one hundred and seventy-seven iterations you’d think I’d have it down cold, but each time there was always a slight variation. Some small, near unnoticeable detail revealed that was previously hidden. Like a name, spoken and clearly audible where it was muffled and undecipherable in a prior iteration. Or a symbol, out of focus and seemingly insignificant but subsequently emphasized through both action and emotion.
Unlike past dreams, I remembered every detail, every moment like they were instantaneously burned into my memory. Things I could not unsee — unfeel — unlearn. Amazing things. Impossible things. Unfortunately there were no women and there was no beer — typical.
While I haven’t figured out who he was nor why I was privy to his visions, I have figured out one thing — he was not to be screwed with.
My name is Dean Robinson. In life I was a soldier. An elite product of the U.S. Army. Upon death I became … well, let’s just say I became something else and leave it at that for now.
There is an evil in the world of man. It’s been here since the beginning. Hidden neatly within the fabric of our very existence, festering through generation upon generation — Manipulating — Corrupting — Evolving. Closer than you could ever imagine.
Conversely, there are those of us that maintain the Balance. This is how it began. For me, the tale began at the end.
Chapter 1
Quick Reaction Force Compound
Outskirts of the Bosnian Township of Brcko
27 December 1998 - 02:43 Hours
For some reason I could never get to sleep after a mission. My mind would race for hours. It absolutely refused to power down. Something about overstimulation from repeated exposure to hostile gunfire. Life and death situations. Blah, blah, blah.
Evidently there were numerous academic studies done on the topic. Like I gave a shit. It was part of the job. An occupational hazard. Annoyed that I had to get up again in an hour, I struggled to keep my eyes shut. Turning to my side in frustration, I adjusted my sleeping bag as my piece of shit, US Army issued, cot creaked and moaned in protest.
The fact that today was my birthday may have also been contributing to the insomnia factor. The ripe old age of thirty-three — practically a damn senior citizen in soldier years. Thinking that I’d give my kingdom for a real bed at the moment, I chuckled to myself at the thought of the ridiculous places I’d spent my birthday over the past few years. Caves, swamps, foxholes — a soldier’s life was something special. No doubt.
At any rate, three more days and we’d be stateside again, at least for a short while. Real beds. Real food. Real beer.
Mesmerized by the faint swinging motion of the dim light bulb hanging from the center of my GP Medium tent, I finally felt my eyes get heavy and my thoughts start to wane. Slowly drifting into that awkward sleep state that only happened when you were completely exhausted or piss frigg’n drunk, I felt it start — the dream. The goddamn dream. Just like every other night since getting here six months ago. Too tired to resist, I felt my eyelids flicker shut and the familiar scene came into perfect focus. Goddammit — I really frigg’n hate this part.
It always started outside the towering gate of an ancient city. The time period was unclear, but my guess was sometime in the first century. It felt like Jerusalem in ancient times. Not that I had any personal experience with what Jerusalem in ancient times actually felt like, but I had seen Ben-Hur a couple times. Perhaps one time too many. Don’t judge me, it’s a frigg’n classic.
I stood within a crowd of people and watched as he was dragged through the gate and casually thrown to the ground by soldiers donning bronze-plated armor and sheathed swords. As the soldiers disdainfully muttered somethi
ng and walked away, he remained hunched over on his knees in the center of a sand covered road. His hands were bound together and firmly pressed against the ground supporting the weight of his upper body as he halfheartedly attempted to get up.
The sun hovered directly overhead in the midday sky, which was a radiant blue and completely absent of clouds. The heat was blistering, and I saw him wince as his palms clearly burned from contact with the sand. His tattered cloak was soaked with sweat that dripped down his forehead and stung his eyes as he squinted while attempting to shake it from his face. As he slowly raised his head, sullen eyes viewed an incensed crowd that had formed around him in a semicircle. His soiled and sunburned face was that of an honest man holding no contempt toward those who persecuted him. He appeared weakened and worn. Exhausted. Defeated, yet somehow resolute.
Venomous shouts of ‘blasphemy,’ ‘heresy,’ and ‘impiety’ poisoned the air. He scanned the crowd to find faces twisted into vicious scowls and looks of utter revulsion. Accusing eyes filled with pure disgust, all fixed solely upon him. As the shouting grew to a thunderous level and feverous tone, the crowd parted, and seven figures dawning ornate crimson robes trimmed with golden fringe slowly emerged. With heads bowed, they strode in perfect unison and stopped directly to his front, forming a perfect line. Standing rigid in a military like manner, they made no eye contact with anyone, as if awaiting orders to perform their next action.
“Sanhedrin,” he muttered under his breath.
Their faces were blank, devoid of emotion in every respect. While their eyes were intense they also seemed distant, as if their thoughts were not completely of their own making. As if on command, each figure simultaneously removed his ceremonious attire and handed it to a child, with unusually red hair, on the inner perimeter of the crowd who apprehensively accepted it and piled it at his feet. One by one, they stepped forward and secured a jagged stone from a carefully placed pile at the feet of a white-robed man standing to their immediate left.
As the scene began to slowly blur and the crowd faded into a background of softened obscurity, my focus shifted to the white-robed figure. Easily a head taller than anyone else in the crowd, his robe was of fine silk and the purest of white.
It flowed to just above his bare feet with a perfectly sewn hem, keeping it just above the tarnished ground. His eyes were deathly cold yet somehow burned with the ferocity of an apex predator. A vivid crimson red with tiny, calculating pupils. His stare was absolutely mesmerizing — Frigg’n terrifying. His mouth curled in a satisfying grin. He began to speak, but the sound was muffled and indiscernible.
As the inaudible words faded, the phrase “Your time has ended, Deacon” echoed through the crowd in a mocking tone followed by subtle paled laughter. Raising his right hand above his head, he gave the frenzied crowd a stern look. They fell perfectly silent. Instantly. The robed figure then turned to each of the seven.
“Now my brothers, return this heretic to the fires that await all blasphemers. Do as the Lord commands. Do it now, in His name.”
As the order was given, they simultaneously raised the stones clutched dispassionately in their hands and stepped forward in unison.
Clearly drawing upon all his remaining strength, the prisoner stood upright. His hands clasped and lowered to his front, offering no resistance. As the first blow struck his face, his head violently snapped backward.
As I felt the impact of the blow slam into my forehead, I painfully realized I was no longer a casual observer in the dream. I was now an active participant — the main character in fact. In some kind of a pseudo Vulcan-mind-meld maneuver, I was sucked into his head and had a front row seat from there on out. Like it or not.
The first few times it happened I was thoroughly confused. Now, after one hundred and seventy-seven repeat performances, I just kind of go with the flow. Not much of a choice in the matter. For a reason I had yet to discern, I was hitching a ride in the body and mind of some random first century guy with anger issues and a propensity to wear cloaks.
Like the saying goes, ‘You can pick your friends but you can’t pick your dreams.’
So, I might have made that saying up — Frigg’n sue me. It helps me cope.
As my head slowly rocked forward, a veil of blood gradually coated my eyes. I looked down at my bound hands. They were unfamiliar to me, mainly because they weren’t mine. They were his, and I was seeing through his eyes, which were actually now mine. It’s all very confusing and generally unsettling. Trust me on that one.
Time slowed to a creeping halt. My head dropped in apathy. Death was imminent. I could feel the sour emotion dominate his thoughts, now my thoughts.
Drop by drop, the blood gradually tumbled from my bludgeoned face and was quickly absorbed by the thirsty sand and scorched rock waiting at my feet.
“Forgive them Father,” I heard myself mutter in an unfamiliar voice, “They know not what they do.”
I slowly raised my head toward the placid sky as countless blows repeatedly struck me down. There was no pain, only confusion, and brief moments of fleeting clarity followed by numbness. There was peacefulness. And then, there was nothing.
As my sight faded, the sky opened and there was blinding darkness.
Like the abrupt changing of a channel, I found myself standing alone in an open field bordered by a plush forest on three sides. It was dusk, and the sun was low on the horizon. I bore no physical sign of the brutal beating I’d suffered nor did I experience any feeling of pain. My tattered clothes were replaced and a curious black cloak hung from my shoulders.
In the far distance I gazed upon the outline of a majestic city spread artfully throughout seven adjoining hills. From prior iterations of the dream, I knew the city to be ancient Rome though I was unclear as to the actual year. I’d make another Ben-Hur reference here, but I’m not sure it would be appreciated.
“The great city of man,” I muttered gazing remorsefully at the city. “What evil do you nurture within your walls? How easily deceived.”
Something was different. I felt older. Uncompromising. Wrathful.
It was the eve of a battle. Legions of soldiers were forming outside the walls of the city. Hastily built encampments littered the banks of the mighty river running to its north. There was a great stone bridge reaching from one bank to the other, and a smaller, hastily built wooden bridge running adjacent to it. My gaze followed the structure across the river and focused on the invading army that was forming rival encampments tucked in the foothills to the far north. As I pulled the hood of my cloak over my head, I sighed.
“Here blood will spill and the path of man decided.”
My hand reached back and tightly wrapped around the hilt of a seemingly uncommon to the era longsword sheathed and fastened to my back. Upon drawing the blade, the sword seemed to hum with power as if charged with an electric current. With the index finger of my left hand I traced the outline of a symbol boldly emblazoned in the pommel. A bold ‘X’ with a prominent ‘P’ struck through the middle. I turned toward the rival encampment and began to walk.
The scene blurred for a split second and day became night. The moon was bright in the evening sky, casting a distinct glow over the vast countryside. I walked, unchallenged, through cluster upon cluster of soldiers preparing for battle. Countless soldiers. Tens of thousands.
The air was charged with a nervous energy as the barking of orders, grinding of remorseless metal, and clinking of armor melded together to form the macabre sound of battle preparation. Despite the vigilant security and guarded entryways to the encampment, no one tried to stop me nor seemed to pay me any attention. I simply walked through all the commotion. A stranger, neither seen nor heard. Like a ghost.
I stood directly in front of a large tent guarded by at least a dozen soldiers bearing highly polished bronze armor and carefully honed spears. A gold staff bearing a vexillum suspended by a gold crossbar was carefully placed in the ground to the right of the entrance.
“The mark of Co
nstantine,” I murmured as I studied the lustrous red flag adorned with three golden circles and golden tassel.
The guards heeded me no attention as I walked directly through their formation and entered the tent. Crossing the threshold, I decisively drew the sword from its scabbard, releasing a ripple of energy into the chill air.
Standing within the sleeping chambers of the tent, I gazed upon the would be commander of the invading army as he rested in his bed. In a blur of motion, I placed both hands in a reverse grip on the hilt of the massive sword and drove the blade firmly into the ground. Standing directly behind it, I then placed both hands to my front with palms facing upward.
“Constantine,” I whispered with a serene voice. “Awaken.”
Rising from his slumber, the commander was surprisingly unalarmed by my presence. He simply stared at me in utter reverence as he rose from his bed and knelt in front of the sword. As he began to speak, white noise flooded the vision disclosing mere audible fragments of the exchange.
“Are you an angel of the Christian God? Please, tell me, what is your purpose here?”
“I am my Father’s Wrath,” I replied. “My time here is brief.”
“Are you to claim my life?” He asked.
“You have found great favor with the Lord. My charge is the ruination of the bastard sons of heaven and those that foster their abhorred existence on His earth. I am to restore the Balance.”
“I do not understand. Are you to command my legions? Am I to unify Rome — to defeat Maxentius?”
“Your enemy is not who you believe him to be. Maxentius is not a man. He is an angel — a heavenly Watcher — fallen from grace. A son of God who defiled himself and his brothers. His true name is Azazel. Weapons of man cannot defeat him.”
“How will I combat such power? What am I to do?”
“Be strong in the Lord and the power of his might,” I replied as I bent down and etched a symbol in the dirt with my index finger. It was a peculiar ‘X’ with a ‘P’ struck through the middle, encased in a triangle and bound within a circle. “With this sign, you shall conquer.”