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

by James MacGhil

  Ironically, if I wasn’t expecting the stupid bastard to do exactly that, I would’ve probably been up shit’s creek. Fortunately for me that wasn’t the case.

  Feeling the mental switch flip to the on position and the calmative awareness pass over me, I casually drifted to my right as the mutant wolf glided past my head in extreme slow motion, snapping his mighty jaws shut where my neck should have been. Tightening the grip on the spatha, I then simply lopped the shaggy fucker’s head clean off the rest of its super sized canine body in a single stroke. As Wonder Mutt dematerialized in mid air with a flash of light, I immediately felt the cloak ripple violently about my shoulders, and instinctively spun away from a swiping razor tipped paw followed by the bum rush of the eight-foot biker bitch bear monster attached to it.

  Quickly reestablishing my footing and gaining some standoff distance from mama bear, I felt the lawn gnome creeping in on me from my six o’clock. Fixing the varangian with a stern glare, I let the korrigan continue his advance on me from the rear as I covered my left hand in ashen hellstone. Curling my hand into a tight fist, I felt the little fucker launch his strike and casually side stepped to my right while swinging my stone fisted hand back to meet his big-eared face with a bone splitting clack. Spinning backward in a blur of motion, I then ripped the spatha through his grotesque, leathery torso cutting the wee bastard clear in half. Screaming and cursing at me as his various and assorted body parts plummeted to the Dreghorn floor with a series of thuds, I planted a boot square in its face, instantly ending the chatter.

  Turning again to face the varangian, she was back on two feet and slowly circling me in a state of pissed off fury. Reaching back over her mammoth shoulders, she produced a honed double-edged battle-axe from somewhere amidst her bearish human backside.

  It was awkward for a second or two as I wondered exactly where she’d been hiding it this whole time. Figuring that particular detail was rather insignificant at the current moment, I got back to business.

  Hissing and growling at me through a snarled, teeth filled maw she readied for her next move as Professor Snaggletooth finally decided to join the party. Casually removing his tweed sport coat and carefully laying it on the floor next to the still slumbering Tiny, the draugr then proceeded to nonchalantly roll up his sleeves and remove his glasses. Producing a sleek scabbard he’d cleverly concealed in his khakis, he unsheathed one of those samurai looking Japanese swords.

  Evidently he wasn’t happy to see me after all — it actually was a sword in his pants. Never seen that particular maneuver before.

  Feeling rather assured about my manhood, I watched suspiciously as he flicked the nimble blade through the air a few times in a presumptuous show of force and joined the varangian apparently ready to actually start fighting. Half expecting him to sprout wings or bust out a red cravat and a ruffled white shirt, I was rather disappointed by the fact that the only indication he wasn’t human was a whitish silver sheen overtaking his eyes. It was certainly creepy as all hell, but not remotely as extreme as I was anticipating. Not sure if that was actually a good thing I readied for the coming onslaught nonetheless.

  Offering the varangian a friendly ‘after you’ nod, the draugr flashed me a dark smile as the eight foot, frothing at the mouth bear beastie tossed the battle axe into the air and dropped to all fours. Holding her mammoth head upward, she caught the axe handle effortlessly between her outstretched jaws and charged me head on, as muscle rippled beneath the fur and pelt of her freakish extremities. Setting my feet and focusing my will, I raised the spatha in my right hand while clenching my left hand into a stone covered fist. Within a few steps from me, she then did something I wasn’t remotely prepared for. Flipping the axe in the air with her snarling mouth, she fluidly transitioned back to two feet while wrapping both hands, or rather gnarly paws, around the tarnished hilt, and brought it straight into my midsection in a blinding flash.

  As the cloak violently rippled, I reeled backward and to the left, trying to avoid certain evisceration. Only partially succeeding I grunted in intense, burning pain as the honed blade ripped through the cloak and got a couple inches of my right abdomen in the process, opening a nasty slit. Barely swinging the spatha in time to parry the full brunt of the strike, I defensively jabbed at the varangian with my stone fist and landed a lucky punch square in her big-ass nose. As her eyes instantly crossed, and I knew from experience her vision blurred, I got the couple seconds I needed to regroup. Taking advantage of the situation, I threw a stiff elbow in the bitch’s furry throat, and followed it with a stone bolstered left to the gut sending her staggering backward.

  “Hurts don’t it,” I snarled while grabbing my bloody side.

  Again setting my feet and feeling a steady stream of blood seep from the impressive laceration on my stomach, I caught a glimpse of movement from above and realized the draugr was taking the opportunity to come in for the kill.

  And damn, that fucker had some serious ups.

  Not getting a real fix on him, I instinctively raised the spatha above my head just in time to meet his other worldly ginsu knife swinging with supernatural strength straight down at my head like he was planning to slice me down the middle. Momentarily shell shocked and completely taken aback by his speed, I watched in awe as he nimbly landed on his feet directly opposite me and blasted me square in the face with the sword hilt before I even knew what was happening. Letting out a pissed off grunt, I took an awkward step backward with blood pouring from my nose like a damn faucet as Abernethy yelled, “Strength and anger won’t get you outta this mess, lad! Clear yer mind! See their attack!”

  With the draugr mere steps away and methodically charging me while waving his sword around like some shit out of a Bruce Lee movie, I lowered the spatha and closed my eyes.

  Released the anger.

  Cleared my mind.

  Found the Balance.

  As the raw power raced through me like a bolt of electricity, I felt my wounds instantly heal themselves, and sensed the draugr’s sword swinging toward my neck like a free falling guillotine blade. Opening my eyes and shooting him a droll glance, I casually reached upward with my stone covered left hand and caught his blade inches from lashing into my neck. Ripping the sword from his hand and effortlessly throwing it clear out of the Dreghorn, I then shattered his nose with a healthy head-butt and followed it with a kick to the chest, sending his blood sucking ass hurling a solid twenty feet backward.

  “Didn’t see that shit on the Lost Boys, eh?” I muttered giving him a victorious glare.

  Feeling pretty good about myself and clearly back in control of the situation, I heard Rooster frantically yell, “Dean! Look out!”

  It was right about then that the eight foot, five-hundred pounds of super humanoid bear nepher tackled me from the blind side like LT taking down a quarterback after an eighties bender of cocaine and hookers. I didn’t even have a chance to say ‘friggn owe’ before the varangian absolutely leveled me like a furry projectile. It was textbook.

  As my body hit the stone floor with the force of a plane crash, the spatha flew from my hand and I found myself on the wrong end of an epic bear fight. Pinning me down with her massive girth, she proceeded to literally beat the ever living shit out of me as I quickly lost count of how many razor tipped paws pummeled my face and upper body. By the grace of God, quite literally, I was able to cover my face with my arms and the cloak and gauntlets prevented any serious damage.

  Absorbing blow after blow in a very un-Deacon like position on the Dreghorn floor, I heard an approaching Abernethy say, “Gotta say, lad. I’m impressed ye lasted this long.”

  “Thanks for that,” I grunted while shielding my face as the varangian feverishly ripped, lashed, and struck at me in a relentless state of maddened fury while keeping me pinned to the ground.

  “May I offer ye a wee suggestion?”

  “All ears!”

  “Well,” he said patiently, “It may be a keen time to call fer the fire, yeah?”


  “Because that worked so well the first two times? Not really sure I can concentrate at the moment,” I yelled as a paw landed squarely in my midsection causing me to groan. “Little busy here!”

  “Aye,” he said letting out a hearty chuckle at my situation. “Perhaps the Rooster can help ye with yer ability to focus. I had high hopes we wouldn’t need to use it but unless yer plan is to wait there until the beastie tires of hitting yer face I think we’re right out of options.” Pausing for a moment, he yelled out, “Jackie! Bring the wee thunder stick over. Let Dean have a go at it.”

  Raising my arms slightly off my face to take a peek at Big A, I saw Rooster tentatively approaching me while carefully avoiding the flailing paws of the perpetual varangian pummel fest. Dropping to knee a safe distance away, he said, “Hey buddy, How’s it going?”

  “Fucking great,” I grunted catching a furry fist in the gut. “How are you?”

  “Brought you a present,” he said producing a dark leather, scabbard-sized holster.

  “Is it a bear trap?” I said while quickly lowering my arms over my face again as I felt a horrendous claw scraping against my metal gauntlet.

  “Sort of,” he snidely replied while pulling an antique looking lever action shotgun with a sawed off barrel and wooden pistol grip stock out of the large holster. “This, my friend, is a genuine hero model 1897 Winchester. Fully customized, of course, with some nifty bells and whistles.” Gazing at the impressive weapon like it was his child, he added, “Made for you and you only. First of its kind.”

  “That’s great,” I grumbled between grunts, “but last I checked — guns didn’t do shit to nephers.”

  “Ah, but this gun is different. With a barrel forged of barzel, it shoots Gehenna fire rounds. You see, through years of experimentation and —”

  “Skip to the end goddamit! How do I operate the fucking thing?” I yelled, cutting him off in mid-pontification as a solid swat to my sternum made me yelp in pain.

  “Oh — ah, right — Sorry. Ah, the gun acts as a foci, allowing you to instantly concentrate your ability to wield the judgment. As you call for the fire, simply charge the lever and you’ve loaded a round. You can figure out the rest.”

  Raising my arms to look him in the eye, I yelled, “On three. Toss it.”

  As Rooster nodded acknowledgement, I channeled all my remaining strength, and yelled, “One!”

  Reaching out with my gauntlet covered hands, I firmly grasped the incoming paws of fury and violently yanked downward bringing the mammoth head of the varangian lurching toward me. “Two!”

  Putting all my force into a powerful sit-up, I lurched my torso upward and head butted that fucker as hard as I possible could. “Three!”

  Whether it was the mere shock factor of the unexpected maneuver or the fact that I’d actually hurt the supernatural bear beastie, I couldn’t be sure — but as it let out an ear splitting howl and flared backward covering its face, I reached out and caught the gun with my right hand. Calling for the fire, I then cocked the lever, jammed the stout barrel of the Holy Shotgun of Antioch squarely in the varangian’s wooly chest, and very happily squeezed the trigger. And, although it most certainly was no Bertha, it was pretty fucking impressive.

  As my hand blew backward from the recoil, I watched in gleeful wonderment as a devastating blast of judgment fire exited the muzzle and blew clear through the unnatural upper body of my over zealous opponent as the reek of incinerated furry flesh overpowered my nostrils. Letting out a ferocious, yet very short-lived, human-like scream the varangian slumped backward to the arena floor and quickly took the form of a naked, very hot blonde chick before dematerializing in a brilliant flash of white radiance. Still a bit stunned by the whole experience, I simply sat there for a second or two staring at the uncanny Winchester.

  “You done good Chickenman,” I muttered looking up at a beaming Rooster. “Real good.”

  Turning to Abernethy, Rooster said, “I told you it would work!”

  “Aye. Well done, lad,” replied the Scotsman, bending over and offering me a hand. “On yer feet, Dean. And watch where yer pointing that pop-gun.” Pulling me up, he glanced at the approaching draugr, and said, “So, Now that ye have yer new toy — you care to finish things up here?”

  Feeling the warm sensation pulse through my body restoring me to a state of perfection, I rolled my head back on my shoulders, and said, “Hells Yes,” as I made a determined beeline for the Count.

  Evidently all set with his aerial display of acrobatics and ninja-like sword twirling, the draugr boldly marched straight toward me with a rather intimidating scowl plastered across his pretty face. With each deliberate step, his whitish silver eyes steadily grew in intensity until they almost glowed like car headlights. Within about ten feet from me they flashed and turned solid black and he gracefully nephed out in mid-stride. Growing easily a foot in height, his unimpressive frame morphed into that of a body builder cut from stone and evidently on a very high protein diet. His skin instantly shifted from a Caucasian spray tanned orange to that of a leathery dark gray, and quite repulsive. And, of course, he smiled to reveal some rather imposing fang like incisors of a deep yellowish sheen, and honestly pretty frigg’n gross.

  I think he was actually about to say something to me when I casually called for the fire, cocked the shotgun lever, and put a round through his throat. Sizzle of flesh — flash of light — no more draugr.

  “Yep. Not sure we had anything meaningful to talk about, asshole,” I muttered while turning and strolling back toward Big A and Rooster.

  Passing a now stirring faux-Tiny with the shotgun propped on my shoulder, I placed a boot in the side of his jumbo head just for good measure. I didn’t even slow down as he scornfully grunted and started to awkwardly push himself off the stone floor and stagger to his feet in a drunken like haze.

  With my back to the giant, I joined my otherworldly colleagues within a few steps as Rooster tossed me the leather holster for the Winchester. “Thanks, Pilgrim,” I said with my very best John Wayne impersonation while catching it and sheathing the shotgun.

  “My pleasure,” he replied still beaming at the effectiveness of his handy work. Pointing at the holster, he said, “You’ll find that it sits very nicely on your back. I had fourteen years to get the measurements right.”

  Ignoring the mental image that came to mind of Rooster taking my ‘measurements’ while all sprawled out in a decade plus of stasis, I turned to Big A, and said, “So, we all set here, boss?”

  Opening his mouth to reply, he abruptly stopped and took a step backward as his gaze drifted upward with widened eyes. Hearing the pounding of giant footsteps behind me, I casually unsheathed the Winchester, flipped him the holster, and focused for a quick second. Not bothering to turn around, I then cocked the lever, reached backward with the barrel, and squeezed the trigger.

  Following the intangible blast that roared from the muzzle was the expected flop of a colossal body on the arena floor by my feet. As fake Tiny’s massive axe flew from his lifeless hands and noisily tumbled along the white stone toward Rooster, a flash of brilliant white light signified that the giant had officially left the building. Giving Big A a self-assured glare, I grabbed the holster, again sheathed the shotgun, and said, “We done here?”

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered somewhat awestruck. “That’ll do for now, lad. Aye, That’ll do.”

  Chapter 22

  As six hellacious chimes rung out from the centuries old grandfather clock in the corner of the dimly lit room, the dinner crowd took their collective cue and began to vacate the Quartermaster. The spectacle of hundreds of people systemically dispersing through the various arcane doorways or simply vanishing in mid stride was absolutely nothing in comparison to the spectacle of the asshole sitting on the stool next to me systematically devouring a mound of extra crispy bacon while relentlessly puffing on a pipe. Not acknowledging my presence in the least, he’d occasionally pause to take a healthy swig from a bottle of aged scot
ch.

  “So, How you been, Fred?” I dryly asked the frail, crusty old bastard without much enthusiasm after a few painful minutes of silence.

  “Better than you, schmendrick,” he replied between voracious bites and plumes of smoke.

  “That’s some clean living,” I said giving his dinner a curious glance. “Must be the secret to your youthful veneer.”

  Continuing to stuff the heart attack on a plate in his mouth like he was afraid somebody was going to take it away from him, he patronizingly stared at me with blood shot, beady eyes, and grumbled, “I like bacon. What’s it to you? O’Dargan’s a schmuck but he knows how to smoke a pig. I’ll give’em that.”

  “Can I get you a bag of chips and a side of mayo? Really round out the food groups?”

  “Where is O’Dargan anyway?” He grumbled completely ignoring my commentary.

  Knocking back the remnants of the frosty beer Rooster poured me before he and Big A were rather abruptly summoned to the Reliquary, I muttered, “Busy.”

  “I would imagine so,” he replied snidely. “The reckoning is near. Isn’t it, schmendrick?”

  Hearing Stephen’s words played back to me sent an immediate chill down my spine. As the magnitude of the statement registered with my brain, I carefully placed the empty mug on the bar, and said, “What did you say?”