Tolerantly gazing upon the apocalyptic firestorm I’d inadvertently created throughout the once green landscape, Stephen stood amidst the flame and sighed.
“Our power is from wrath,” he said in a fatherly tone. “Wrath is not our power. Do you understand, Dean?”
Doubled over and gasping for breath, I willed the cloak and the ethereal gauntlets covering my hands into retreat.
“I can’t control it,” I forced out shaking my head in denial. “It takes over. Too powerful.”
“Because you fear it,” he replied firmly grasping my shoulders and helping me upright. “Control the Wrath and you will command the power.”
With a casual wave of his hand, the flames subsided and the field returned to a brilliant green.
“Again.”
Snapping out of the daydream, I muttered under my breath, “Control the Wrath.” And began my short journey to the streambed.
Standing alone on the hilltop, I begrudgingly glared at the faraway mountain range. Why the hell couldn’t I get there? What the hell was I missing? Feeling a prominent surge of anger pulse through me, I unknowingly clenched both hands into tight fists. Gritting my teeth I felt the muscles in my neck constrict to the point where veins started popping out. Overcome with rage, I inadvertently willed the cloak into being and felt it abruptly manifest around my shoulders in a spectral flash of white luminescence. Feeding off my sour emotions, it rippled and swelled about my body sending visible waves of intense heat pulsing through the air. The surrounding green grass instantly ignited and formed a sprawling circular pattern of charred earth around me.
As my hands started to shake in fury, I threw my head back and let out an ear-splitting, primal scream.
In the midst of my childlike outburst, I defiantly threw my fisted hands in the air and the gauntlets manifested in a spectral flash covering my hands and forearms in rough-hewn ashen stone. Feeling a bit foolish, I lowered my arms and admired the uncanny, weightless substance perfectly encasing my flesh as a vision of Stephen flashed through my thoughts.
“What’s with the gloves?” I asked curiously mesmerized by the ethereal matter shielding Stephen’s hands and forearms.
Placing his hands casually out to his front, the shimmering, translucent material morphed into what appeared to be a lustrous argent metal.
“Gauntlets, Dean. Not gloves,” he replied. “Combined with the Deacon’s cloak they complete our divine armor. A means to channel the forces of Heaven and smite the vile beings we seek.”
“What the hell are they made from?”
“Fundamental elements of the Realms,” he said in his signature stoic tone. “Ashen stone from the molten cliffs of Tartarus. Barzel, the iron of Heaven, milled in the angelic forges. Fire of Gehenna summoned from the unquenchable lake. With mastery of your bestowed abilities the gauntlets will manifest in the form of your choosing.”
“Interesting,” I muttered holding in a smirk. “Do they come in green?”
The thought of the stiff right to the jaw I received for that last comment instantly snapped me out of my daydream and back to the present. Let’s just say that a clenched fist perfectly coated in an otherworldly metal packs a slight wallop. Trust me on that one.
Calmed down a bit and returned to a rational state of mind, I willed the cloak and gauntlets into retreat with a spectral flash and began my short walk to the streambed. I evidently had some anger issues to work through.
It felt like months had passed. My head hung low as I stood on the hilltop with my eyes closed. Although the rage coursed through my body like an uninterrupted current, I no longer feared it. I welcomed it.
Slowly opening my eyes, I focused on my left hand and willed the ethereal gauntlet into being. Instantly manifesting around my hand, it slowly crept along my forearm as the translucent material shimmered ominously in the sunlight. Turning my palm toward the sky, I very carefully opened it and called for the fire. In response, the gauntlet ignited with subtle flame and a perfect sphere of wraithlike white fire carefully formed and hovered perfectly within my open hand. Slowly rotating, it crackled and hissed with abstract heat and intangible power. Frigg’n astonished that it actually happened, I momentarily let my concentration lapse and it vanished as quickly as it appeared, in a brilliant flash.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered triumphantly exhaling deeply. “I did it.”
Willing the gauntlet into retreat, I thought of Stephen and a wide smile stretched across my face as my mind drifted back to one of our first conversations.
“Why fire?” I asked mesmerized by the otherworldly flame.
“Not mere fire, Dean,” he replied with no hint of emotion. “Fire of Gehenna - The unquenchable lake. The final judgment.”
“What does it do exactly?”
“Upon the Earth it has the power to do many things. Heal. Cleanse. Corrupt. Wound. Ruin. However, wielded as His judgment by a Deacon it will destroy anything it is cast upon. It is a grave burden to shoulder such responsibility. Our burden.”
As the weight of his last comment hit home, I muttered, “It will destroy anything.”
“The judgment of Gehenna fire is absolute. Nothing remains — body nor soul. It is only to be wielded upon the enemies of Heaven. Violate that covenant and the Wrath will turn upon you.”
“Understood,” I somberly said nodding in affirmation.
“You will find mastery of some aspects of the fire easier than others. Regardless of how you employ it — Do not do so without reason.”
I peacefully stood on the hilltop peering across the lush landscape at the majestic mountains. This time I felt different. The repeated anger I’d held on to for being denied access to them was gone. For a reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on, I made peace with the fact that many things still remained outside my level of understanding. When the time was right — I would be shown the path.
Good lord, I might be all grown up. That is a damn scary thought.
Luckily I didn’t have much time to dwell on it because the sun began to set for the first time since my arrival in the Realms. As I stood contemplating the meaning of that particular omen, I felt a sharp gust of wind whisk across my face accompanied by a whisper-like shriek. Although it no longer scared the shit out of me, I still had no idea where it came from. Making the mental note that I’d really like to figure that out at some point, I assumed it was probably a hint.
Apparently it was time to go.
Chapter 10
As a surge of adrenaline shot through me, I turned to face the door. Taking three bold steps I stopped at the base of the granite threshold, reached back over my right shoulder, and effortlessly sheathed my sword in the leather scabbard strapped tightly across my back. Willing it into retreat I felt its presence instantly fade.
Yes, I had a sword - a spatha to be precise. Bit smaller than Stephen’s longsword. More suited to my ‘talents’ as he politely put it. I made a pretty compelling argument for a shotgun but evidently that was currently an unsupported weapon in the divine armory.
Typical.
Although, after dragging me through what seemed like an eternity of training sessions, I think Stephen was going to try and pull some strings. I wasn’t exactly Connor MacLeod if you know what I’m saying.
Intently gazing at the door, I focused on the inlaid symbols, which I now knew to be angelic glyphs. Reaching out with my left hand, I placed it squarely upon the Chi-Rho exquisitely cast in the center. As my hand firmly set upon the symbol, I closed my eyes and muttered the phrase required to activate the gateway. The words instinctively flowed from my mouth in a strange language, like it was second nature. A strange language that I now spoke. The language of angels. Enochian.
As the final syllable exited my mouth, the glyphs immediately responded by systematically illuminating in a steady pattern. In a precise sequence throughout the doorway, each glyph answered, in turn, by emitting a bluish white glow. As soon as one completed, the next one started. The sequence fluidly continued
until the coordinates to my destination were completed, and the gateway established. With the lighting of the final glyph, the door’s impregnable locking mechanism disengaged as distinct whirring, clicking, and sliding sounds were evident from somewhere deep within the mighty panels. An ominous thud echoed throughout the still air indicating it was unlocked. Reaching back I pulled the dark hood of the cloak over my head, and mentally prepared myself for the journey. Releasing my hand from the Chi-Rho, I securely grasped the ironclad handles and threw open the massive doors.
I was ready.
Glaring fearlessly into the boundless, swirling vortex of time and space, I confidently stepped across the threshold and felt a surge of determination course through my body as my mouth stretched into a confident grin. It was time to fulfill my purpose. Prove my mettle. A new mission.
As I pierced the veil between the worlds, I quickly came to the realization that, tragically, I might not have been quite as ready as I recently thought to be. Damn it. I knew I should have paid more attention to Cloakboy when he was explaining the whole threshold thing. Instantly paralyzed by complete and utter sensory overload, I flawlessly executed a full bodied belly flop brilliantly capped off with a nose splitting face plant. Epic fail. That is so leaving a mark.
Right before I blacked out I couldn’t help but wonder if this happened to Stephen the first time. Gotta be a common occurrence. That first step’s a real bitch. Somebody should paint it yellow. Maybe put a sign up.
I was coaxed back into consciousness by the sound of laughter. Wave after wave of hearty, celebratory laughter. A sound I’d heard before. Carefully opening my eyes, I painfully squinted and blinked a couple times as the blurred scene slowly came into focus. I was sitting on a wood floor with my back to the wall. My head hung limply with my chin resting firmly on my chest. As my eyes fully adjusted, and my torso and legs came into focus, I realized that I was dressed in my tactical uniform. Or at least what remained of my uniform. It was shredded and covered in blood.
Slowly raising my head, I saw a shotgun draped across my feet. My shotgun. Bertha! The muzzle was warm against my legs, and a thin layer of smoke hung in the air that reeked of expended gunpowder. Six empty shells were scattered about my feet. With the unexplainable laughter starting to wane, I raised my head fully upright and was hit with a surge of adrenaline as I confirmed what I’d suspected. I was at the church. Son of a bitch. I was back.
The second trial. Petrovich. Azazel. Whatever the hell his name is. Should’ve seen that coming. Amazingly, it appeared I’d returned only mere seconds after making my not so glorious departure. Evidently, the whole Heaven versus Earth time disparity deal was no joke. With my eyes now functioning at full capacity, I carefully panned my head to the right and found the alter where Father Watson lay imprisoned, and still softly laughing. His eyeless gaze was fixed firmly on me like he was anticipating my return. Huddled in the corner to the right of the alter was Doc Kelly with her face completely expressionless, staring straight ahead into oblivion. Evidently still under the Petrovich mind whammy.
Despite the circumstances, I was elated to lay eyes on her again. After all, I still owed her a beer.
As I slowly wrapped my head around the scene in attempt to process what I was looking at, the harrowing voice of my executioner sent a distinct chill down my spine. Crossing my line of sight, Petrovich strode purposefully toward the alter paying me no attention. Seemed logical as he just finished unloading a shotgun into my chest a mere few seconds earlier.
“You know, Priest, it is unfathomable to me that you find humor in this situation,” he condescendingly said glaring at Father Watson. Reaching the alter he stopped and loomed over the Padre. “Clearly, I will never understand the human mind. Such a curious, deluded construct.”
Digging deep within his suit jacket, he produced what appeared to be a small scythe. He held it out to his front, in admiration, as it gleamed malevolently within the flickering candlelight. A series of Enochian glyphs, inscribed throughout the curvature of the honed blade, glowed a spectral crimson.
“I’m afraid our business is concluded,” he said definitively. “Much to do. Much to do. Exciting times these are indeed. The time of harvest is upon us. Your soul will make a marvelous contribution to the future of mankind as I remake it in my worthy image. Rest assured.”
“My soul belongs to the Father, and warded through my oath to the Guild,” Father Watson confidently replied with a satisfied smile on his face. “There is nothing more you can do to me, you fool. Your ignorance is your undoing. Through your arrogance a Deacon has emerged. Called to existence by your very hand.” In a sober tone he gazed across the room in my direction. “Prepare yourself, Azazel, the Wrath is upon you.”
“Your delusions fail you,” Petrovich snapped in a bitter tone. “Deacons. The Guild. Father’s precious attack dogs. Do not insult. They hold no authority over me. So terribly predictable.”
Lowering the scythe, he sarcastically looked around the sanctuary and said, “But perhaps your right, Priest. Perhaps the mighty Deacons — the Seven lines of Seven — and their flock of minions are lurking in the shadows of this very church, at this very moment. Waiting for the opportune moment to flaunt their tawdry cloaks and smite my poor children with their precious hell fire and blades of barzel. Frothing at the mouth to cast me back into Father’s cage for all eternity.” Pausing momentarily he mockingly placed a hand to his ear to listen. “Then again. Perhaps not.”
With that, he raised the scythe above the Padre and muttered something under his breath in Enochian.
It was time.
Feeling a sense of controlled vengeance, I rose to my feet with my head bowed. Willing the cloak into being, my tattered uniform was restored to perfection in a spectral flash, and the standard camouflage pattern gave way to solid black — Johnny Cash meets Johnny Rambo. Thinking that was a nice touch, my lips curled into a dark grin.
The raw power of the cloak pulsed through my body like an electric current. It was our gift and our curse. The ever present source of our abilities. The wrath of God incarnate in physical form. A divine means to an end. The cloak flowed about my shoulders for a split second then vanished as I willed it into retreat. Didn’t want to go ‘full cloak’ on Petrovich. Not yet. Reaching down I grabbed Bertha and rested her against my right shoulder.
“It’s been too long, baby”, I muttered to myself.
Now granted, a shotgun wouldn’t do shit to an angel but damn if it didn’t make me feel better. As a stern grin stretched across my face, I looked up and focused on Petrovich.
“Hey, handsome. Got a sec?” I shouted confidently striding toward him.
Spinning around in a state of absolute shock, Petrovich lowered the scythe to his side and stared at me with a look of total bewilderment. Tilting his head to the right he started to say something, but abruptly stopped. Apparently he was at a loss for words. That’s a first.
“So, Wanted to let you know that I’ve had a good bit of time to give your employment opportunity some serious thought,” I said pulling to a halt within a step or two from him. “As luck would have it, there’s a competing offer on the table. So, after careful consideration, I regret to inform that — You can piss up a rope.”
“Interesting,” he said with a smug grin apparently over his momentary speech impediment. “A wonderful trick indeed. Something’s different about you, Captain. Is that a touch of sorcery I sense? Didn’t figure you for the type. It matters not. Unfortunately, I lack the time to entertain your amateurish arcane abilities.”
Taking a step toward me, he raised the scythe to his side and admired it once again. Shifting his focus from the shimmering blade to me, he mockingly said, “Do you mean to shoot me?”
Slowly curling my hand into tight fists, I willed the ethereal gauntlets into being. Subtly manifesting with the signature spectral flash, they perfectly encased my hands and forearms in a rough-hewn ashen stone. His smug grin instantly vanished.
“I may shoot
you later,” I said as I winked at him. “Figured I’d hit you a couple times first.”
“A Deacon,” he muttered with a look of pure disbelief strewn across his male model-like face. “Not possible.”
Willing the cloak into being, it instantly manifested and forbiddingly billowed about my shoulders.
“Didn’t see that coming, eh?” I muttered feeling its dark power cascade through me. “Bit of a surprise to me as well.”
In a flash of movement, I closed the short distance between us, and threw all my force into a menacing right handed cross that landed squarely in his washboard-like stomach. The sheer impact of the devastating punch, bolstered by my supernatural strength and the unbreakable hellstone covering my hands, instantly doubled him over in grimacing pain. The look of complete confusion on his face was absolutely priceless. A true polaroid moment. Instant classic. I’m talking — Christmas card quality — good.
With his entirely too good-looking face now conveniently at fist level, I quickly relished the moment and followed the cross with a left hook to the chin. The arc of my fist ripped through the air in a blur of motion and struck him like a sledgehammer. In what felt like complete slow motion, his face violently swiveled to the side as I geared up for the knockout blow. Totally amped up and having way too much fun, I instinctively reset my hips and sunk all my weight into a heavy handed right cross directly to the side of his exposed head.
The blunt impact of my stone fist took, the completely befuddled, Petrovich clear off his feet and launched him a solid ten feet backward. Slamming into a tall pile of discarded pews, he crashed to a most ungraceful halt amidst a heap of wooden carnage. Lamely sprawled out on the sanctuary floor in a most unangel-like position, he was apparently down for the count.
“Oooh. That had to hurt. I mean — like really hurt.”
Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1 Page 10
