“Never before have we gathered our ranks as we do now. For never before has the Guild been compromised in the manner we find ourselves in at the present moment.” Stepping down from the stone platform and slowly making his way through the crowd, he paused at an empty seat. “What I am about to tell you will be difficult to comprehend. But you deserve to know — for the totality of the situation will either strengthen our collective resolve or subsequently solidify our ruin. And with it — the ruin of the Father’s great creation.”
Scanning the faces of the seated Deacons, he boldly said, “As in the days of old — The anakim are reborn in, what we believe to be, staggering numbers. Azazel and the Maradim have grown to a strength that is, quite candidly, incomprehensible. And if the Prophecy is to be believed — the liberation of the fallen Watchers is imminent.” Pausing, he added, “The reckoning is upon us.”
As his stoic mask returned, he boldly declared, “While the source of this resurgence remains unclear, the consequence to the Lines of Seven is shockingly definitive. We have suffered loss — unparalleled loss. Where the strength of forty-nine Deacons will be required to combat the greatest challenge put upon us since our very inception — we are but twenty-five strong.” As a roll of astonishment slowly overtook the crowd to hear this staggering admission, Stephen slowly stepped upon the pedestal once again. “The dark forces of our enemy have claimed the lives of nearly half our brothers across the Seven Realms.”
Making direct eye contact with me, he solemnly said, “Twenty-four Deacons — erased from existence. A fate more than unworthy of their testament.”
With my mind again flashing back to Azazel and the captive Deacons entrapped in holy flame, I broke eye contact with Stephen and gazed at the stone floor. They weren’t dead and he damn well knew it. He was lying. To what point or purpose was yet to be determined.
Scanning the room, he said with conviction, “For too long have the Maradim operated in the shadows of our Sight — Praying upon the very flesh and will of mankind. I’ve gathered you here because we now have an opportunity to end it. Once and for all.”
As confused whispers began to emanate from within the ranks of the gathered Deacons, Abernethy boldly rose to his feet and addressed the group.
“It is as we’ve suspected, lads. They’ve a shadow realm. A shadow realm with a network of tethers that shift throughout the Earth. That’s how the anakim have been moving about undetected.”
“That is simply not possible,” sternly said a wide shouldered, dark skinned gent with a deep African inflection in his booming voice. Quickly standing, he locked eyes with Big A from across the hearth with an intense pensive gaze. “Such a thing is not possible, Abernethy. You know this.”
Leaning forward, Rooster whispered, “That’s Berko. Archdeacon of the Third Realm. He scares the crap out of me.”
“Aye. But it is possible,” replied Abernethy. “It’s been done before. Long ago. It requires an object of power.”
“What object could perform such a feat?” Berko scoffed.
Flipping him what I presumed to be the coin we lifted from the Skipper, Abernethy said, “An Instrument of the Passion.”
Casually snatching it, Berko’s face hardened as he gave it a scrutinizing glare. “A Tyrian shekel — The Thirty Pieces? Can this be?”
“Aye, the Judas pennies. The cursed blood money paid for the betrayal of Jesus Christ himself. It’s the key.”
“Even with an Instrument, this action would require a level of power and mastery well beyond that which Azazel could summon of his own accord,” Berko said will conviction. Turning to Stephen, he said, “This is proof. He is receiving aid from within the Heavens.”
Without the slightest waiver to his stoic mask, Stephen replied, “I will not dispute these claims, Berko. There are forces at work here that we cannot begin to comprehend. But it matters not. We have an opportunity to act. An opportunity that has not presented itself until now.” Turning and nodding at Rooster, he said, “Please enlighten our brothers as to your discovery.”
Jumping to his feet, Rooster stood aside Big A and produced his gadget phone from the pocket of the black leather bomber jacket he was sporting for the meeting. Feverishly working the screen with his fingers for a quick second, a virtual semi-translucent monitor jumped from the phone and grew in size hovering in mid-air over the hearth. Displaying a series of images to include one of the curious coin and a map of the United States with several flashing dots, he faced the group in a lecturing fashion.
Clearing his throat like he was a bit nervous, he said, “Ok, here’s the short story. Last week an anakim pack showed up in Tallahassee, Florida and went to town on a field of cattle. No different than we’ve seen them do countless times before across the globe. Although, this time we caught a break. In the course of the investigation, we realized that a metamorph on the Guild’s watch list was conspicuously in Tallahassee at the very site of the feeding — mere hours before it happened.”
As interested murmurs were heard throughout the intent audience, Rooster started to pace around the hearth while flipping various images onto the floating monitor. “So we paid him a friendly visit, and it was pretty clear he’d been operating under orders from the Maradim.”
Pointing at the coin, Berko still had clutched tightly in his hand, Rooster said, “That’s when we found the shekel. Amongst other tasks, the metamorph was given precise instructions to place it in a ‘special tree’ to which he was given a set of grid coordinates.”
Pulling up an enlarged image of the coin, he said, “A Skyphos analysis indicated that it is, in fact, one of the Thirty Pieces of Silver — a dark Instrument we thought to be long since destroyed. While we have no idea how the coins ended up in the hands of the Maradim, they’ve evidently been doctored up with an unidentified glyph, providing some extra horsepower.”
Pulling up another picture of a tree amidst a thick forest with a section clearly highlighted, he said, “We located this tree at the Tallahassee site. Note the circular mark burned into the trunk. It’s a similar glyph as imprinted on the coin.”
As the images faded and were replaced by overlapping depictions of the two symbols, Rooster said, “The way we figure it, the mating of a glyph on the coin with its counterpart inscribed in a tree — a hemlock tree to be specific — creates a tether. A temporary yet incredibly powerful tether. Best we can tell, it only lasts an hour — maybe two. Once established, a portal can be opened from within the shadow realm, and we all know the rest of the story.”
Pausing to survey the attentive faces hanging on each and every word, he added, “It’s a well coordinated, precise operation. The locations, times, and dates are predesignated.” Pointing to the map as it zoomed in on a small town in central New York, he said, “According to the information we intercepted, the next portal will open here — Liverpool, New York. Friday — at midnight.”
“Thank You, John. Well done,” declared Stephen giving Rooster a grateful nod while stepping onto the pedestal. “Gentleman, this is the breakthrough that’s eluded us for the better part of two decades. We can only assume that Azazel is concealing his entire legion of anakim within this very realm until which time they come to the Earth to feed.”
“Rats in a cage,” Berko said rising to his feet again with a fervent look of anticipation. “Their salvation will be their tomb. The fires of judgment shall rain upon them as we storm the gate with the combined force of the Guild.”
“They will be shown no mercy, Berko,” Stephen replied with a calculated gaze. “However, the combined force of the Guild may not be required.” Shooting me a solemn glare, he said, “For we need not storm the gate. We must simply close it.”
As muddled whispers echoed throughout the crowd, Stephen casually pulled the hood of his cloak over his head. Stepping down from the pedestal, he said, “Now please return to your stations, brothers. I must consult with the archdeacons.”
Following suit, the archdeacons donned their hoods and faded from si
ght through a doorway that formed within the solid rock wall to the rear of the hearth. The remaining Deacons and clerics filed through a series of other doors that I presumed led back to their respective Realms. Some of them gave Rooster and I a nod as they passed. Others, not so much. After a quick minute or two, we found ourselves alone in the rotunda.
As the flame resumed its normal raging level, I stood staring into the void while trying my damnedest to piece together what in the hell I’d just witnessed.
Then it hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew what Stephen intended to do. He was going to bring down the shadow realm — and with it, sacrifice the trapped Deacons.
Son of a Bitch.
Chapter 29
With my thoughts clouded with uncertainty, we abruptly returned to the Quartermaster as I determinedly followed Rooster through a thick crowd of people buzzing with nervous excitement. Although no one knew exactly what was going on, rumors that the Deacons and head clerics from across the Seven Realms were summoned to Raven Spire was fairly conclusive evidence that some serious shit was about to go down.
Stopping at the bar, Rooster casually hopped to the other side and grabbed a couple of coffee mugs. Grabbing a seat and casually gazing around the vast expanse of the QM to find hundreds of people stuffing their faces and slurping down various drinks from copper mugs and pint glasses, I asked, “Just where the hell does all this food come from anyway? I never see anybody cooking.”
With a smug grin, Rooster said, “Five loaves and two fish.”
Figuring I didn’t really want to know anything more, I switched topics and grumbled, “So those were all the remaining Deacons?”
“Yeppers,” he replied preoccupied while feverishly sliding his fingers over the screen of his phone. Looking up at me with a sullen squint, he added, “Still can’t believe that twenty four have fallen. That just doesn’t compute, man. Deacons are a freak’n force of nature.”
“Yeah,” was all I could muster knowing damn well that they had indeed not fallen and were currently a part of Azazel’s collection in the shadow realm we were evidently about to light up. In an attempt to lighten the mood, I said, “Not an exceptionally talkative bunch, eh?”
“Well, Deacons aren’t typically known for their adept conversation skills and butter knife-like wit,” he dryly replied as he slid me a tall mug of coffee. “You’re a bit of one off in that regard.”
“Touché,” I muttered taking a healthy swig. Attempting to fill in some blanks from the Gathering, I asked, “So how exactly do you ‘close the door’ to a shadow realm.”
“Well,” he replied taking a sip of coffee, “You basically have to unmake the fabric of existence that binds it together. Collapse it on itself. Implode it.”
“With a magus?” I asked.
“Maybe with a thousand or so of them, Sure,” he replied. “But it would take time. Months. Maybe even years to take down something as large as what we suspect Azazel has constructed.” Putting his mug down, he said, “Nope. For a job like this we need something special. Something with juice. Hellfire and brimstone to an order of magnitude that would make an archangel piss himself type of juice. Gotta be quick — decisive. Leave no window for escape.”
“And where does one acquire such a doomsday device?”
“Well,” he replied, “Theoretically speaking of course, a brilliant yet misunderstood cleric may have developed just such a contraption several centuries ago.”
“You don’t say?” I muttered.
“It’s never been fully tested of course,” he said matter of factly.
“I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“Pretty sure it works though.”
“That’s great,” I dryly grumbled. “Please tell me you don’t keep it behind the bar.”
“Behind the bar? Hell no,” he scoffed. “Nope. That puppy’s in my bedroom.”
“That’s not weird at all,” I said as one of the throneVision screens, lining the wall atop the bar, caught my eye. It looked like a heated shouting match between a gaggle of people trying to jockey to the front of a line in an airport terminal. More than happy to get off the topic of the otherworldly suitcase nuke that Rooster evidently had stashed in his underwear drawer, I asked, “Is that an airport?”
Taking a step forward and looking up so he could see the screen, he said, “Yeppers. Looks like Atlanta. Airports in general are nepher havens. We keep an eye on all the big ones.”
“Seriously?”
“Hell Yeah. Think about it. Where else can you find thousands of pissed off humans cooped up in a single place for twelve hours a day — every day. It’s an uninterrupted current of highly concentrated frustration, anxiety, and self-centeredness. Human nature at its absolute worst. Nephers love it. They feed off the negative energy like it’s candy. Airports, man. Bad, bad places. Only one thing worse than an airport.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” I asked fairly convinced that his whole airport commentary made a hell of a lot of sense.
“Piano bars,” he replied blankly as his demeanor subtly hardened.
Thinking that was pretty damn funny, I broke into laughter when something about the look on his face made me quickly come to the realization that he wasn’t joking. It was awkward.
Making a poor, yet valiant, attempt to mask my chuckle by faking a cough, I made the mental note to revisit that particular topic at a later time. Fortunately for me, the general awkwardness of the moment was quickly diffused as the booming disembodied voice of Skyphos blared through the ether like my high school principal.
“Cleric O’Dargan and Deacon Robinson, Your presence is required in the Reliquary.”
Tossing a scone at me, Rooster grumbled, “Let’s go.”
Winding our way through the labyrinth of people and hanging a hard left at the giant oak, we crossed the threshold into the Reliquary. Amidst the feverish activity of the DOC staff preparing for what appeared to be World War III, we quickly proceeded up the stairs to the command bridge where my gaze was drawn to a gigantic digital clock sitting atop the massive monitor on the circular wall of the rotunda. Boldly displaying the date, time, and a foreboding countdown timer, it read — ‘07:32 Wednesday, 1/8/12, T Minus 34 Hours - 28 Minutes.’
Reaching the top of the spiral staircase, we found Caveman, Tango, and Cooper Rayfield talking to an assortment of field agents thru several live teleLink feeds while taking turns updating a virtual map hovering in midair to their front. And somehow in the mere hours since I’d last seen him, Caveman managed to regrow his fury manscape. Impressive.
Spitting some tobacco juice into a plastic cup, Coop gave Rooster a hearty bro hug and turned to me with an extended hand. “Howdy, hoss. Cooper Rayfield. At your service,” he said with a thick drawl and intense eyes.
“Dean,” I said exchanging a firm shake. “Good to meet you.”
Finishing his conversation with a field agent who appeared to be wearing an impressive ghillie suit, Tango waved his hand over the virtual screen and it quickly faded from sight. Turning to Rooster and me with an exhausted yet resolute look in his eye, he said, “Hey, guys — here’s the situation. Thirty-four hours and change until the window opens.”
Gesturing to the map floating to our front, he pointed to a section of woods highlighted with a pulsing red circle. “This is ground zero in Liverpool. Using the grid coordinate you lifted from the Skipper, Crockett and his guys located the hemlock tree marked with the glyph.”
“Is Crockett the dude in the ghillie suit?” I asked.
“Yeah, bro,” Caveman replied. “But that wasn’t a suit.”
“Right,” I muttered wondering why the hell I even bothered to ask. Shifting back to Tango, I said, “And you were saying.”
“At the moment, I’ve got a total of four teams on the ground. Two tactical squads in an overwatch of the target location itself. And two surveillance teams canvassing the surrounding town trying to pick up some passive intel from the locals.”
“Nicely done,” I
muttered admiring the uncanny mixture of good old fashioned reconnaissance tactics and otherworldly technology that would make the CIA piss themselves. “Any movement thus far on the target?”
“No. It’s been quiet. Nothing’s been within a couple miles of the hemlock tree since we arrived on site twelve hours ago.”
“How about the town?” Rooster asked waving his fingers over a virtual screen displaying a map of the Village of Liverpool. “Anything suspicious?”
“Well, aside from the distinct possibly that nobody told these guys that it’s not 1983 anymore and they have a museum dedicated to salt,” Tango said dryly, “It all seems fairly normal.” Pulling up what appeared to be a pie chart on a separate screen, he added, “Although, there is one curious demographic to note.”
Studying the graph for a quick second, Rooster said, “No freaking way. Is that accurate?”
“Yeah, bro,” said Caveman. “It’s a nepherville.”
“And they’re all Blind? I don’t believe it,” Rooster said skeptically.
“It is accurate, Rooster,” said Skyphos jumping into the conversation. “The entire population of the Village of Liverpool, New York — two thousand, three hundred and forty two souls have definitive levels of nephilim DNA. None of which are Conscious of their condition.”
“Are you sure?” Rooster blurted out shaking his head in disbelief.
After a very deliberate pause, Skyphos replied, “Yes, Cleric. I am always sure. I am Skyphos.”
Figuring I needed to interject before Rooster caught a divine bowling in the side of the head, I asked, “Someone want to break this down for the Guild impaired? What, pray tell, is a nepherville?”
Rise of the Giants: The Guild of Deacons, Book 1 Page 29
