Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1
Page 11
Not sure whether it was my spiked adrenaline level or the dark power pouring into me from the cloak, but I felt good. It was euphoric. Dangerously intoxicating.
Carefully leaning Bertha against the altar, I systemically grasped the mighty spikes impaled in Father Watson’s limbs with the gauntlets. Upon my touch they simply dematerialized leaving gaping, gruesome holes in his flesh. Willing the ashen stone into retreat, I called for the healing fire. As the ethereal whitish blue flame replaced the course stone, I placed my hands on each of his open wounds and watched in wonderment as they unnaturally closed upon themselves. Unfortunately he was still in rough shape. I’d barely scratched the surface on how to employ the healing capabilities of my power. The Padre needed medical attention. Quickly.
“Hang in there, Father,” I said, willing the gauntlets into retreat. “Have you out of here in a minute.”
Lying perfectly still on the altar, he softly glared at me with empty eye sockets. With a placid smile, he said, “You have released me. Thank you, Dean. I believe my work here is now finished. Your work, however, is just beginning. Please continue with the task at hand and kindly leave me to my providence.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he shut his eyelids, and a look of consummate serenity washed over his battered face.
“Balance, Dean,” he muttered in a subdued whisper-like voice.
As he exhaled his final breath, a delicate mist of incorporeal purple radiance ascended from the Padre’s now lifeless body, and hovered inimitably in the still air. As I stood awestruck by the inexpressible grandeur of his disembodied soul, it elegantly drifted upward and vanished in a swirling vortex of celestial light.
The Padre had evidently left the building.
“Hell of an exit,” I muttered to myself thinking that he was clearly going to be disappointed by the lack of ‘holy water’ where he was heading.
Maybe they’d make an exception. He’d earned it after all. At the very least I hope he filled up his flask.
Sliding my hands under his limp and broken body, I lifted him off the forsaken blood stained altar and turned toward the vestibule. No way I was leaving his body there. I’d make sure the boys gave him a proper burial at some point. Focusing on the doorway at the far side of the sanctuary, I took three bold steps, and within a brief second found myself standing in the vestibule by the main entrance to the church. Laying the Padre’s corpse carefully against the interior wall, I reversed the process, and found myself back in the sanctuary standing over Doc Kelly.
Apparently angels had some serious mind control mojo because the Doc was still hunkered against the wall to the rear of the altar, gazing emptily at nothing particular. Briefly pausing to admire her stunning features — and making the mental note that only Erin could still look amazing in the midst of a shit storm like this — I carefully lifted her from the floor and cradled her petite body in my arms.
Although I was pretty sure she wouldn’t hear me, I muttered, “Time to get you out of here, Doc. Hope you don’t mind an IOU on that beer.”
Again focusing my will, I turned, took three steps, and faded from the sanctuary only to manifest again in the vestibule. Quickly finding a safe place to stash Erin until I could call in for the evac, I delicately lowered her to the floor in back of an antique wooden desk against the far wall. As I began to slowly pull my arms away, I felt her hands reach out and tightly grasp my right bicep. A bit startled I abruptly raised my head only to find her staring directly at me with a somewhat vacant look.
“Hello,” she said sounding like she’d had a few too many margaritas during a prolonged happy hour. Clumsily looking around the dimly lit room with glazed eyes, she started to uncharacteristically giggle like a small child. “What happened here? This place is a wreck.”
“Kind of a long story-“
“Oh my,” she said not giving me a chance to get a word in edgewise as she squeezed my bicep again, “Very firm. Do you work out?”
“Take it easy, Doc,” I replied, chuckling a bit despite the circumstances. “You’re not quite yourself at the moment-“
“Is that a cape?” She asked inquisitively gawking at the otherworldly cloak hanging about my shoulders.
“Ah, No — it’s a cloak. Big difference-”
“Wait!” She said in a tone slightly more sober yet very un-Erin like. “You sound just like Dean. I think he’s here somewhere. Have you seen him? He came to find me. I was in trouble.”
“It’s Ok, Doc. I’m here-“
“Am I still in trouble?” She asked as her eyes widened in fear.
“No, No. You’re Ok. Just relax a bit. You’ll be out of here and back to your old self soon enough.”
“Oh, good. Thank You,” she murmured visibly relaxing. “Please tell Dean that I’m here. He’ll be worried. He works out too, you know. He’s my favorite. Don’t tell him though. He thinks he’s a tough guy.”
Upon completing her thought, Erin’s eyes faded shut and she drifted into a deep sleep from what I assumed was an after-effect of the angelic mind whammy. Thinking it a bit odd that she didn’t recognize me, I shrugged it off to the same factor.
“Thinks he’s a tough guy?” I muttered to myself gently removing her hands from my arm, and placing them on her lap. “Clearly she’s confused. I am her favorite though. That’s gotta count for something.”
With Erin momentarily out of harm’s way, I focused again on the sanctuary, and within three steps found myself back at the altar. It was time to finish the job. Restore the Balance. As I started confidently walking toward the hot mess on the floor, also known as Goran Petrovich, I was stopped dead in my tracks by a thunderous growl emanating from the far side of the sanctuary. I turned just in time to see a large silhouette emerge from the oversized gopher hole in the church floor.
Tiny. And he looked pissed.
Chapter 11
Slowly emerging from the darkness and into the dim lighting of the sanctuary, the giant determinedly stomped toward me. His mouth was curled into a wicked scowl, showing off his wolf-manlike incisors. In his right hand he had a death grip on the handle of a big-ass medieval looking battle-axe that he carelessly dragged behind him. The enormous axe head carved a visible path through the wooden floor of the church as he lumbered to meet me. Slumped over his left shoulder was what appeared to be a lifeless body. I could vaguely make out a pair of legs dangling limply about his massive torso. Legs with combat boots. The First Sergeant.
Son of a bitch.
Barreling through the labyrinth of makeshift hospital beds, he effortlessly batted them from his path as cot after cot soared through the air in various pieces and parts — recently deceased occupants and all. It was quite the spectacle. Abruptly stopping within ten feet of me, he glared hatefully through his black, soulless eyes. Reaching up with his left hand, he grabbed the First Sergeant’s limp body and flung him to the ground in defiance as he shot me a mocking smile.
Turning his head and spitting a truly disgusting looking substance on Tony’s corpse, he looked directly at me and said, “He was weak. Now it is your turn.”
“You should not have fucking done that,” I instantly replied through gritted teeth.
Overcome with rage, I curled my hands into tight fists and felt the wrathful power of the cloak roar to life as it amplified my anger to a near unrestrained level. Almost like it was feeding off my pain. Egging me on. Pushing me beyond my level of control.
In a blinding streak, Tiny placed both hands on the hilt of his mighty axe and raised it far above his head as he charged at me with breakneck speed. Closing the distance in a fraction of a second, I stood firmly and watched as he swung it, with every ounce of his unbound supernatural strength, directly at my head. A heart-stopping howl boomed from his mouth as his eyes tightly squinted with focused fury in anticipation of the kill. As his fifteen-foot frame loomed over me, and the blood-crusted blade of his axe swung to within inches of my neck, I couldn’t help but smile.
“Tiny, You stupid
Son of a Bitch,” I muttered still standing firm.
Focusing on my hands, still clutched into fists by my side, I instantly felt the presence of the gauntlets as they manifested in the form of rough hewn, ashen hellstone. Taking half a step to my left, I sunk all my force into a perfectly executed right hook that squarely connected with Tiny’s kneecap, which was conveniently at eye level. His manly battle cry quickly downgraded to a bitch-like squeal as my stone shielded fist completely obliterated his knee, dropping his sorry ass straight to the floor. Momentarily in shock, I couldn’t help but snicker as he dumbfoundedly gawked at the fact that his thighbone was no longer connected to his shinbone.
“Might have blown an ACL there, asshole. Hurts — Don’t it?”
Sprawled out in a giant mound on the church floor, he looked up at me in a state of complete and utter confusion. As he began to open his mouth to say something I instantly cocked my right arm back, dropped to my knees, and squarely delivered a stiff right to his face. His eyes shot wide open for a split second as the impact of my gauntlet bashed his oversized nose and slammed his big ass head into the floor. The violent collision resulted in the splitting of several floorboards as the foundation of the church groaned in protest.
Surging with adrenaline, I jumped back to my feet and held out my hands, focusing on the gauntlets. In a spectral flash, the ashen stone was replaced with glinting, argent metal. Glaring at the downed behemoth with a dark, brooding scowl, I willed the spatha into being and instantly felt the presence of the leather scabbard on my back. As the strength of my will steadily yielded to the wrathful influence of the cloak, I wanted nothing more than to carve Tiny’s wretched body into a bloody fucking stump. The anticipation of meticulously ripping my sword inch by inch through his goddamned neck was overpowering.
I could literally taste it.
Slowly and excruciatingly I would make him endure every fucking ounce of torment he deserved. Payback with interest for all the souls he devoured throughout the course of his unnatural, cursed existence. He would beg for mercy before I was finished. And none would be granted.
As my scowl stretched into a dark smile, I reached back and grasped the stout hilt of the otherworldly sword. Decisively drawing it from its sheath, I felt a ripple of energy release into the stagnant air with an ominous hum. Holding it out, my eyes drifted to the inscription boldly blazoned upon the argent blade.
‘No me satues sin razon.’
“Do not draw me without reason,” I muttered translating the Latin phrase.
As the spoken words registered with my brain, I instantly broke from the homicidal trance and sheathed the sword. Fighting to reestablish rational control of my thoughts, I affirmably declared, “No. Not like this.”
Shaking my head and exhaling a steady breath, I focused on a memory of Stephen.
Awkwardly toppling to the ground while feebly attempting to parry a Stephen sword attack, I dropped my longsword in defeat and muttered, “Any chance of swapping this thing out for a gun?”
“For an accomplished pugilist your footwork is truly appalling,” he stoically replied ignoring my request. Lowering the massive blade and extending his hand to help me up, he said, “You wield the longsword with the skill of a one armed blind man with two broken legs.”
“Thanks for that,” I grumbled accepting his aid.
Reaching over his shoulder, with his free hand he drew a second, smaller sword from a leather scabbard strapped tightly to his back. Flipping the blade downward and handing it to me hilt first, he said, “Perhaps a spatha is more suited to your talents. With a one-handed hilt, it’s lighter, faster — a soldier’s sword.”
“I think I should be insulted,” I shot back begrudgingly accepting the shorter weapon. “You do realize that swords went out of style with Braveheart, right?”
“I was not aware of that,” he dryly replied. “Thank You so much for enlightening me.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“Forged by the Seraphim,” he said resting the hefty longsword against his shoulder, “the barzel blade of our weaponry is lethal to all beings — mortal, divine, or otherwise.”
“Gotta be a better way to take down a giant. Perhaps a nice grenade launcher? Something with a trigger and large bullets.”
“Nephilim are impervious to earthly attack, Dean. Despite their abhorred nature, they are spawn of angels. Only a weapon of the Realms will end them. Separate the head from the neck — they will heal from anything less definitive. While the judgment of Gehenna fire will furnish the same result, it will be many centuries before you acquire the requisite level of mastery to wield it effectively.”
“Awesome,” I grumbled letting out an exasperated sigh, while pulling the spatha from the ground. “Killing giants with swords. An entirely new spin on bringing a knife to a gunfight.”
“The path of the Deacon is not to kill indiscriminately, Dean,” he said with a stern look. “We are to cast final judgment. There can be no malice — no anger — in our deeds. Acts without reason and honor violate the very Balance we have vowed to maintain. There are consequences for such dereliction.”
Hearing a stirring sound to my rear, I turned my head and was absolutely shocked to hear a familiar voice.
“Hey, little help over here?”
Tony? He’s alive — Son of a Bitch.
Momentarily back in control, and feeling somewhat like my old self again, I willed the gauntlets into retreat. Quickly spinning around, I saw the First Sergeant gingerly sit up. His swollen face grimaced with deep-seated pain as one of his arms hung limp by his side. His face looked like a damn punching bag, covered in blood. Both his legs were visibly broken. Damn — that’s one tough bastard.
“About time you showed up, Big Sarge,” I said helping him up to a stable sitting position. “Beginning to think I’d have to take care of this mess on my own. You Ok?”
“Who the fuck are you?” He dryly grumbled as he squinted at me through blackened, distended eyes. “Where’s Captain Robinson?”
My momentary joy was dashed as the impact of Tony’s question hit me like a damn baseball bat to the jaw. He didn’t recognize me either. The warning heeded by Stephen flashed through my thoughts.
“Although Deacons live in the world of man they a are no longer part of it. Your mortal life has ended. You are a mere ghost to those you once knew. A strange face in the crowd — only recognizable to those touched with the Sight. Feared by most and revered by others. But make no mistake, Dean, should you choose this path, the life you knew upon the Earth is forfeit.”
It was official. I was dead.
My best friend and brother in arms didn’t know me. That hurt. Bad. For a split second I thought it might have been his wounds affecting his sight. Or the fact that he smacked his head and wasn’t thinking straight. But the realist in me knew it wasn’t. First Erin. Now Tony. I’d made my choice and this was part of the deal.
“I’m a friend,” I replied despondently. “Robinson fell.”
“Fuck You,” Tony grunted pushing my hands away. “Where is he? Where’s Doc Kelly? Father Watson? Help me up, goddamn it!”
Willing the ethereal gauntlet into being around my left hand, I slowly raised it to Tony’s head and called for the healing fire. With a heavy heart, I muttered, “Mission’s over, old friend. Fight another day.”
As I gently placed my flame veiled hand on Tony’s temple, his eyes flashed with instant tranquility as his broken body relaxed and began to sink back to the floor. His eyes slowly closed into a deep, placid sleep. Scooping up his massive frame with ease, I quickly ushered him to the vestibule and propped him up against the wall adjacent a slumbering Doc Kelly.
Hoping like hell my voice still sounded enough like the old me, I reached down and grabbed the hand mic clipped to the First Sergeant’s tac vest. Pressing the transmit button, I calmly said, “Red Bayonet — Two casualties prepped for evac — One KIA — Main breach — Objective is not secure — Say Again — Not Secure.”
“Roger — Target’s in flight — I’m pursuing — Don’t wait — Robinson Out.”
With the cavalry on their way to snatch Tony, Doc, and the remains of Father Watson, I dropped the hand mic. Despairingly staring at my friends, I felt waves of melancholy anger undulate through my body. Tony and Erin would be Ok. Me, on the other hand, I wasn’t so sure. The jury was still out.
Evidently long overdue, the reality of my mortal death and newfound supernatural existence finally hit me. And it hit me hard. Dropping to a knee and apathetically lowering my head, I was overcome with an intense, dark depression. The rancorous thoughts I’d recently held at bay came back — one hundred fold — as the brooding influence of the cloak raced through my veins like wild fire. Repeated, undeniable, savage impulses slammed my consciousness. Pushing me into a state of vindictive fury — goading me into action.
Closing my eyes, my mind flooded with an incessant yearning need for retribution — blood of the enemy — good old fashion payback. The cloak was vengeance incarnate and I was its vessel — We shared the same goal.
Somebody had to pay. Right fucking now.
No longer feeling the need to resist, I opened my eyes and muttered, “Yes.”
Despite knowing deep down it was a really fucking bad idea, I allowed the vindictive power to freely flow into me as I slowly rose to my feet. Fully relenting to the unbridled Wrath, I burned with nothing short of pure primal rage. With teeth gritted, I felt my hands clench into tight fists, and again snarled, “Yes.”
Feeling the ethereal metal flow about my hands and forearms, I called for the spatha. My mouth curled into a vicious smile as the presence of the scabbard was evident on my back. In a blur of motion, I drew the otherworldly blade and held it tightly with my right hand in fervent anticipation of casting judgment, with extreme prejudice, upon the enemies of Heaven — my enemies.