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

by James MacGhil

  “You got it. I lead the surveillance and response teams for the Seventh Realm.”

  Enamored by his sea foam colored pants, intentionally faded blue polo shirt, and cool guy jean jacket, I said, “Surveillance, eh? That would explain why you look like you’re about to crash a frat party.”

  “What do you mean?” He muttered while giving me a blank look and nonchalantly fixing his hair.

  “Ah, never mind,” I uncomfortably muttered. “Did someone say it’s time for lunch?”

  Before they had the chance to answer, the disembodied voice of Skyphos boomed, “Deacon Robinson, You have an incoming teleLink from the archdeacon. Shall I connect you?”

  “Ah, Sure,” I said not really knowing what the proper answer to such a question would be.

  Within a brief second, a semi translucent virtual screen manifested at eye level, displaying a bulky Scotsman standing in the center of a colosseum-like structure holding a tree-sized log like it was a twig. As the picture zoomed to a close up of his weathered face, he said, “Good Morning, sunshine. Now that ye got yer beauty rest, bring yer wee self out to the train’n pitch, yeah? Jackie will show ye the way.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied while gazing into the otherworldly communications portal. “On my way.”

  As the screen faded, he grumbled, “Pure dead brilliant.”

  “So that’s teleLink, eh?” I said turning to Rooster. “That was — neat.”

  “Yeppers,” said Rooster matter of factly, “It’s even smart phone compatible.” Reading my blank look at the mention of an ‘smart phone’ he just said, “Yeah — Never mind. Mobile devices basically run society nowadays. Nepher technology. We’ll get to that later though. Best to not keep Big A waiting.”

  Making the mental note to figure out what the hell that meant at a later time, I replied, “Ok. Let’s go. Guess that means no lunch. Awesome.” As we started down the hallway, I asked, “What exactly was he doing with that log?”

  “Ever hear of the caber toss?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re in for a treat, my friend. It was all the rage when Big A was a lad. Although, he’s made a couple of extreme modifications to the spirit of the game. Just remember to duck.” Rubbing the back of his head, he added, “Trust me on that one.”

  “Perfect,” I grumbled. “Just how old is the big fella anyway?”

  “Well,” Rooster said with a devious smirk, “Let’s just say that the kilt isn’t a fashion statement.”

  Not having it in me to field a response, I walked in silence, reflecting on the dark prison and collection of mind whammied Deacons imprisoned within the holy flame. How was such a thing possible — And to what purpose? And Smitty — he looked right at me like he knew I was watching — knew I was there. In hindsight, I think I’d trade having my crazy dream every night for the rest of my un-dead life for this newfound voyeuristic ability.

  “The reckoning is near,” I grumbled under my breath as Stephen’s words rung ominously in my head, and his atypical behavior still had me completely stunned.

  “What’d you say?” Asked Tango walking to my side.

  “Beer. I could use a beer.”

  Make that several.

  Chapter 20

  “So, where exactly are we now?” I asked Rooster as we crossed the threshold of yet another random door in the Quartermaster.

  Finding myself on the wood line of a thick forest of ancient trees, I stared apprehensively at a colossus arena of white, ornamental stone sitting squarely in the center of an infinite green field and towering majestically into the blue sky. I couldn’t help but smile as I envisioned Judah Ben-Hur cruising by on a pimped out chariot while casually beating down a Barbary lion with a pointy stick.

  Yes — I went there again. It’s a frigg’n classic.

  Encouragingly slapping me on the back, he replied, “Where we are exactly — I’ve no idea. What I do know is that we’re somewhere on the far northern border of Badenoch. We use it as our training grounds — or pitch as they say in the Scottish. The archdeacon comes out here to blow off steam. Oh, and as an aside, it’s usually smart to be nowhere in the general vicinity when that happens.”

  “Noted,” I said staring at the larger than life structure in the distance. “And the Colosseum looking joint over there — what the hell is that?”

  “That’s where you meet the enemy. It’s actually a full scale replica of the actual Colosseum — as it looked in the second century of course.”

  “Of course,” I dryly replied. As I stood momentarily entranced by the sheer size and grandeur of the Roman architectural marvel, I heard Rooster let out a subtle chuckle. “What?” I asked turning toward him.

  “Oh, nothing. Just figured you were going to make some lame Ben-Hur reference is all.”

  Making the mental note that they certainly did have a ridiculously detailed file on me, I said, “Is it too late?”

  “Yep. Moment’s gone.”

  “Damn,” I dryly muttered.

  Shifting focus back to the structure, he said, “Anywho, Big A calls it the Dreghorn.”

  “Sounds lovely.”

  “Yeppers. Skyphos is able to construct live battle simulations, so you can’t get anything closer to the real thing than the actual real thing.”

  “Simulations?”

  “Yeah man, but trust me, it will still hurt. Good luck.”

  “You’re not coming?” I said as he started to walk back toward the doorway.

  “Nope. I have a project to finish in the armory. Been working on something for you. Something I think you may need in the very near future.” Passing through the doorway, he called back, “Be back soon. Remember to duck.”

  “Wait — what?” I yelled as the door vanished in a brief flash of white light.

  Per my usual confused state, I turned again to face the Dreghorn and felt the cloak start to manifest around my shoulders just as a ginormous, airborne log struck me squarely in the chest with the force of a wrecking ball. Taking me clear off my feet and launching me ten feet backward into the trunk of an mighty tree, the projectile like timber dematerialized as I slunk to the ground in a state of ineffable pain. Staring despondently into the brilliant blue sky, I was sprawled out and gasping for breath as a familiar female voice rung out.

  “Deacon Robinson, You have an incoming teleLink from Cleric O’Dargan. Shall I connect you?”

  “Yes …” I halfheartedly mumbled.

  As the semi translucent virtual screen manifested in front of my pain-ridden face, a shit-eating grin bearing Rooster appeared.

  “You didn’t duck did you?”

  Swatting the image with my hand, I forced out, “You’re an asshole.”

  As the screen quickly dissipated, I struggled to my feet and heard the trailing voice of Rooster call out, “Focus. Clear your mind. Balance.”

  Spitting out a healthy wad of blood and cradling my aching ribs, I determinedly glared at the stone arena. “Alright. Game — fucking — on.”

  Feeling the cloak ripple about my shoulders, a warm, almost electric sensation passed through my damaged body, instantly healing my injuries. Slowly pulling in a long, deliberate breath, I cleared my mind and focused my thoughts.

  And I found the Balance — the perfect balance between wrath and clarity.

  Flipping the mental switch, I instantly felt the boundless power well up in the deep recess of my soul, and an assertive smile stretch widely across my face. Willing the argent metal gauntlets into being, I felt them manifest with a spectral flash and pour seamlessly over my hands. Calling for the spatha, I felt the presence of the leather scabbard on my back as I reached back and grasped the stout handle. A distinct hum emanated through the surrounding air as I drew the otherworldly blade and began to boldly march toward the palatial stone structure in the distant expanse.

  Pulling the hood of the cloak over my head, I took three bold steps and instantly found myself in the center of the faux Colosseum, standing opposite a fully cloaked arc
hdeacon swinging a log like it was a stick directly at my midsection.

  Please — like I didn’t see that coming.

  Reaching out with my left hand, I violently grasped the swinging timber in mid-arc, much to the chagrin of my supernatural superior, as my feet sunk a solid inch or two into the stone floor with the force of the impact. Just getting warmed up, I then cut the goddamn thing in half with a forceful swipe of my sword and finished it off with a powerful kick to the chest of the large Scotsman, sending him flying backward in a state of momentary shock.

  “Reporting for duty, sir,” I said removing my hood and sheathing the spatha. “Hit me with a tree once, shame on me. Twice? Not frigg’n happening.”

  “Not bad, laddie,” said Big A amidst hearty laughter as he effortlessly rose to his feet while dusting himself off. “Aye. Not bad at all.”

  Taking a few steps toward me while drawing his claymore broadsword, his bearded face curled into a dark grin. “The cloak will protect ye from most attack. No weapon of man can penetrate its defense. When ye focus yer strength and balance yer thoughts, you are nigh unstoppable.”

  Firmly grasping the hilt, argent metal gauntlets instantly covered his hands as he swung the claymore at my neck with unnatural speed. In a blur of motion I drew the spatha and blocked his attack mere inches from being decapitated.

  Amidst a shower of sparks resulting from the collision of the two otherworldly swords, he said, “But know this, Deanie, a blade of barzel will slice ye open like a wee fish and spill yer guts just the same. The cloak cannot protect ye from the metal of Heaven. Allow one to separate yer head from neck and yer be no more.” Dropping the sword, he added, “Just as our weapons are made in the Seraphic forges, so be that of those loyal to Azazel. Never underestimate yer enemy. Drop yer guard — yer focus — and yer vulnerable.”

  “Understood,” I said while lowering the spatha and cringing at the fact that he called me Deanie.

  “Now, let’s get down to it,” he said looking around the arena. “This is the Dreghorn where we master the gifts bestowed upon us by the Father. Ye have power, lad. But it’s blunt — ye must sharpen it, yeah?”

  “Ah, Yes,” I acknowledged while trying my damnedest to decipher his accent without the benefit of Rooster’s translation. “Sharpen the skills. Got it.”

  “The enemies of Heaven take many forms. Ye need to learn them. Recognize what lurks beneath the skin. Understand their strengths and their weaknesses. Jackie schooled ye on the beasties, yeah?”

  “Beasties — You mean the anakim?”

  “Nae, lad,” he said sheathing his broadsword. “The gothen — the right scunners of the nephil ranks. But, since you mentioned them, let’s get started with the anakim. I believe you’ve met this particular foul bastart once before.”

  Hearing a subtle stirring of movement behind me mixed with the sound of heavy breathing, I turned just in time to see a familiar fifteen-foot behemoth hit me squarely in the jaw with an oversized fist. Soaring through the air in a state of confused shock, I crashed to a ungainly halt on the white stone floor of the arena. Quickly jumping to my feet and glaring at Tiny, I felt the cloak ripple aggressively about my shoulders.

  “Tiny?” I shouted looking over at a smiling Abernethy. “Seriously? Where the hell’d he come from?”

  “Where he came from matters not,” he replied amidst laughter, “If I were you, I’d be more keen to make him leave, lad.”

  Fixing me with black, soulless eyes, the simulated Tiny clutched a mammoth battle-axe with both hands and cautiously circled me like a predator waiting to strike. Drawing the spatha, I focused on my strength and watched his every move.

  “The anakim,” said Abernethy as I readied for the impending attack, “Are the most powerful of the nephilim. Direct offspring of angels and humans. Impervious to weapons of man. Can heal from all wounds given enough time and human blood.”

  Circling each other in an intense stare down like the prelude to an epic boxing match, I sharply glared at Tiny watching for any indication of his next move. Continuing with his bizarre form of instruction, Abernethy said, “As with most of the beasties, ye have two options. Separate the head from the neck with a blade of barzel or wield the judgment of Gehenna fire. Either will do.”

  Raising his axe and charging me with blinding speed, Tiny belted out a truly horrible growl and fixed me with fury laden eyes. Focusing my will, I felt time slow to a dramatic crawl and watched expectantly as all his movement reduced to near slow motion. Casually stepping to the left and out of the downward arc of his axe, I boldly swung the spatha at his exposed knee cap in hopes of dropping his sorry ass to the ground so I could lop off his sputnik sized head and call it a day. Unfortunately, seemed that particular maneuver wasn’t going to work so well a second time. Dropping the axe to parry my sword strike, he forcefully swatted me with a backhanded fist that sent me flying through the air in a cloaked heap as my sword sprung from my hand and went clear in the other direction. Not good.

  “Agile growlers, the anakim are. Smart blighters. Ruthless warriors,” bellowed Abernethy, “And now you’ve lost yer wee sword. Focus yerself, laddie.”

  “I — am — focusing,” I angrily grumbled while quickly pushing myself off the dusty stone.

  Hearing and feeling the rapid advance of giant footsteps, I instinctively rolled to my left just in time to see the honed edge of a massive axe sink a solid foot into the stone floor where my head was resting just seconds before. Yeah, that would’ve left a mark.

  As Tiny began to violently pull his axe free, I figured it was high time to quit acting like a punching bag and put an end to this bullshit. From my impromptu prone position on the Dreghorn floor, I decisively whipped my legs around and took out his oversized, sandal wearing feet. As he grunted in protest and staggered backward, I spun to my feet in a blur of motion. Jumping several feet in the air and putting all my force into a devastating right cross, I traded out the argent metal gauntlets for the unbreakable ashen stone and with a spectral flash they covered my hands and ignited with subtle white flame in mid strike.

  Catching him in a clumsy stumble, I drove my stone fist into his big ass, crusty beard wearing face that sent him hurling to the ground with a glorious boom. Eyes closed and body limp, I loomed over the downed giant with a dark smile. Victoriously waltzing to where my sword lay on the floor, I willed the stone gauntlets back to metal and picked it up.

  Turning to Abernethy, I said, “What? No more commentary?”

  “Not bad — but we’re just getting started, laddie,” he said with a devious grin.

  “Fair enough,” I grumbled while heading back toward Tiny and raising the spatha to close the deal.

  As I readied to deliver the deathblow, I was halted by the exaggerated sound of Big A clearing his throat with a pronounced ‘Ahem.’

  “What?” I growled glaring back at him.

  “Tricky thing about the anakim.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’ll seldom find one by itself. Bit of a pack hunter.”

  As his words registered with my adrenaline filled brain, I realized that Tiny was not the only bad guy in the near vicinity. Feeling the cloak ripple anxiously about my shoulders, I instinctively ducked and spun to the side as a mammoth sword ripped through the air, inches above my head. Trying to quickly get my bearings, I bobbed and weaved my way around a humongous razor tipped spear thrusting toward my mid-section from the opposite direction.

  Reeling backward to establish a solid foothold, I laid eyes on, not one, but two additional colossal combatants standing on either side of the still downed Tiny. Equally as grotesque as their sidelined counterpart, they stood a healthy bit taller and appeared to be regulars at the local nepher gym as their hulking chests, shoulders, and arms absolutely bulged under their battle hardened armor.

  “Howdy gents,” I said catching my breath. “So, which one of you assholes is Hans and which one is Franz?”

  Evidently not in the mood to entertain my q
uestioning nor appreciating the reference, they dropped to a predatory crouch and methodically flanked me with weapons at the ready. Feeling a wave of turbo charged adrenaline, I focused on the gauntlets and apprehensively called for the fire. In response, a subtle layer of intense white flame covered my metal-shielded hands and flowed over the spatha like molten lava.

  Although probably a hell of lot more efficient to hit these clowns with a blast of Gehenna fire, I wasn’t exactly feeling ‘firestorm capable’ as my mind flashed with all the various and assorted apocalyptic fall out zones of ruinous devastation I’d inadvertently created in past attempts. Playing it safe — I figured I couldn’t go wrong with the flaming sword gig.

  As Hans, formerly known as Colossal Bad Guy Number One, thrust his mongo spear at my stomach and nearly turned me into a cloaked shish-kabob I sprung into action. With a single, blinding motion I ripped the spatha clear through the shaft of his giant skewer and fluidly cleaved his right leg off at the kneecap. As he awkwardly collapsed to the ground with a bloody stump for a leg and broke-ass spear, I kicked him squarely in the chest for good measure, and quickly shifted focus to Franz, formerly known as Colossal Bad Guy Number Two.

  Just barely dodging his ridiculously large sword from removing my head, I spun to my right while lashing the spatha into his armored mid-section. The fire-smothered blade cut through the bronze plating like a hot knife through butter, as a macabre collection of oversized entrails poured from his lacerated torso and splattered a grisly crimson pattern across the white stone of the Dreghorn floor.

  Roaring in primal pain that made my ears hurt, it dropped the mighty sword and grasped the open wound with both hands as I swung upward with all my force and removed its massive head with one strike. Collapsing to the ground like a felled tree, the giant carcass simply dematerialized and faded from being.

  “Well done,” patronizingly shouted a clapping Abernethy, “One out of three. At this pace, ye may even live long enough to see a fourth. May I offer a wee suggestion?”