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

by James MacGhil

  “Damn it. Forgot the batch of mead I promised Caveman. Must’ve left it on the bar. Be right back.”

  “Leave that to me, Hop Along. I’ll catch up with you,” I said turning around. “Won’t be too difficult at the pace you’re moving.”

  “Damn nice of you,” he said with a smirk. “But don’t think this gets you off the hook for bashing my knee. We’re going to square that debt at some point.”

  “Looking forward to it,” I grumbled.

  As I walked away, he called out, “Hey, Dean.”

  “What now?” I groaned stopping in mid-stride and looking back.

  With a sober, sincere gaze, he just stared at me for a long second or two like he was choosing his next words very carefully.

  “What you did in the shadow realm — for us. All of us. I mean — there’s no words for something like that. I never said thank you.”

  Nodding, I simply replied, “And you never should.”

  After a second healthy stroll, I arrived back at the bar to find two man sized ceramic growlers labeled ‘Money Honey — for Caveman Use Only.’

  “Now that’s just funny,” I muttered shaking my head as I quickly grabbed the stout bottles. Glancing upward at one of the tV screens, a comical vision of several douchebags in tight suits and large guts elbowing their way to the front of a line in some random airport terminal made me chuckle.

  “Probably some goddamn consultants,” I joked to myself.

  Just as I turned to walk away, the sound of an unexpected voice caught me off guard.

  “Marvelous places — airports. I must confess, I take great pleasure in the engendered hostility. It’s simply exceptional.”

  Stopping dead in my tracks, I spun back toward the bar to find a roguishly handsome character of medium build with slicked back silver hair and a pair of Buddy Holly spectacles. Dressed all in black with a pristine white apron covering his torso, he was taking great care to meticulously polish a pint glass with a piece of cloth.

  “And you are?” I said glaring at him.

  “No one of consequence,” he casually replied as he finished the glass he was working on and carefully placed it on a shelf. “However, my friends call me Lew.”

  Without so much as looking up, he simply grabbed another one and went to work on it like I wasn’t even there.

  There was something about his voice. It was familiar.

  “I haven’t see you around. You new here?”

  “Quite the contrary,” he replied amidst a modest laugh. “I’ve been around for a long, long year.”

  “Well you’re evidently missing the party of the millennium. Everyone’s at the Dreghorn slugging back Rooster beer like it’s free. Something about all the giants and their bean stalk going poof.”

  Finishing the second glass, he methodically placed it next to the first and boldly smiled at me.

  “So I’ve heard,” he replied in a fluid, charming voice with the ever so slightest hint of an accent I couldn’t quite place. “But I’m afraid you’ll find that particular celebration slightly premature. As I told you before, Master Robinson, that was the merely the first act.”

  As his words registered with my brain, I instantly felt the prickly sensation on the back of my neck.

  “You,” I blurted out putting the bottles down. “It was you — that’s been eaves dropping. You pulled me out of the shadow realm.”

  “Quite correct,” he replied folding his hands and placing them on the bar. “It was I.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I am an enemy of your enemy. Which if I’m not mistaken, makes me your friend.”

  “My enemy? You mean Azazel.”

  He grinned.

  “Azazel is a deluded child, Dean. A pawn. There is a greater being who threatens the integrity of the game. A being of power and influence. He and he alone is your true adversary.”

  “The traitor,” I grumbled. “You know who it is.”

  “It is within my purview to know such things.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me, are you?”

  “I am not,” he said removing the apron and draping it over the bar. “I’m afraid it would be very unsportsmanlike, shall we say.”

  “Awesome,” I muttered. “You mentioned a game. What game?”

  “Why the game of life, of course,” he said smiling. “The great human choice — devotion or transgression. Sinner or saint. To rise — or to fall.”

  Still not following the plot, I just glared at him.

  “For the rules are absolute. As they’ve been since the very beginning,” he quipped. “It’s a game of subterfuge — to be played in the shadows of mankind with the utmost of finesse. But there are forces at work that will undoubtedly change the nature of the contest with a brutish stratagem fueled by deluded concepts of world order and revenge. Something that I simply cannot tolerate. It’s terribly bad for business, you see.”

  “Business,” I grumbled still clueless as to what he was droning on about. “What business is that exactly?”

  “My business,” he replied very casually.

  “Alright,” I muttered losing my patience. “What the hell is it that you want?”

  “The grand conspiracy is still very much afoot despite your valiant efforts in brother Azazel’s paradise lost. I merely want you to finish that which you’ve started. Restore the Balance.”

  “Not sure where you’re getting your news from Lewis, but it’s over. The giants are toast. I’ve already done that.”

  “No — You have not,” he said in a cordial yet stern manner. “But I believe you will. Given the proper oversight.”

  “Right, Ok,” I muttered having had enough of this bullshit conversation. “This was fun. Appreciate you stopping by, and thanks for this incredibly insightful chat. It was great. Seriously. We should do it again. Actually — let’s not.”

  Grabbing the bottles of mead, I said, “And thanks for saving my ass. Still not sure why the hell you did it, but at the moment — I really don’t give much of a shit. On a cautionary note, Lew — I wouldn’t recommend sneaking around here anymore. Especially behind the bar. Rooster doesn’t like people touching his stuff. Got a nasty B side, if you know what I’m saying. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry. Trust me on that one. At any rate — Keep it real.”

  As I started to walk away, I turned and asked, “And what the hell kind of angel name is Lew anyway?”

  As his grin morphed into a beaming smile, a loud chime rung through the vacated Quartermaster, and I instinctively spun to find the centuries old grandfather clock in the far corner announcing the changing of the hour.

  “You are a quick study, Master Robinson,” he said with a modest chuckle. “However, it’s been quite some time since my name has been associated with that of an angel. Fare thee well, my friend. We shall chat again - soon.”

  As quickly as I turned back toward the bar, my mysterious new pal was gone. Doing a quick scan to find myself completely alone, I suddenly had the gut wrenching feeling that ‘Lew’ was most likely an abbreviation for something else. Perhaps something with a couple more syllables and slightly more terrifying.

  “Lucifer,” I muttered to myself. “Didn’t see that coming. Thought he’d be taller.“

  As I turned and started back toward the party, suddenly not feeling very party like anymore, the front door of the Quartermaster swung open and a gust of wintry air blasted through the empty bar. Spinning around to find the silhouette of a petit frame standing firmly against the Boston night, I felt a surge of adrenaline rip through me.

  “Dean Robinson!” She barked crossing the threshold with her fists clenched. “You owe me a goddamn beer.”

  “Doc?”

  And once again in my short lived supernatural existence, things had become interesting.

  EPILOGUE

  Everybody has dreams. Some include bikini clad super models and fruity cocktails with little umbrellas. Others include giant beings with poor hygiene habits and fallen ange
ls with daddy issues. Either way, dreams are truly an interesting phenomenon.

  In my mortal life, I operated under the premise that dreams were nothing more than a random offshoot of my subconscious mind. A haphazard collection of unfinished thoughts woven together and played back in a nonsensical loop when my brain needed a smoke break.

  But after being on the flip side of things for a while — I knew otherwise. There was meaning. Purpose. Direction. Things that would cook your frigg’n noodle if you thought about it too much.

  So I decided not to think about it. For the time being anyway. And as fate would have it, spending a rather enjoyable celebratory evening in the Dreghorn was just the distraction I needed to put things back in perspective. If such a thing still existed in the not-so afterlife that is.

  There was just something about watching a miniature feral hog and his furry BFF moonwalk their way through a full scale replica of the second century Roman Colosseum that puts a whole new spin on the way you look at things.

  I also came to the conclusion that being seven hundred years old and Scottish does not make you proficient at the bagpipes. Although I’m not sure Big A would share the same sentiment as he serenaded the masses with a relentless cacophony of really bad music right up until his prized instrument curiously burst into flames.

  It was an accident. I swear.

  And believe it or not, before the festivities drew to a close I had yet another astounding revelation. With the precise application of RoosterBragh in mass quantities — It indeed was possible to get an undead, semi-divine super solider liquor’d up. Pretty sure I should have laid off those shots of glowing orange liquid at the end though. I think it might have been cleaning solvent. Hell of an aftertaste.

  As a streaming replay of the unexpected reunion with Erin Kelly dominated my thoughts, I plummeted face first onto my humble bed in the bowels of the Quartermaster and quickly drifted into an intoxicated slumber. And right when I had the unequivocal feeling that everything was going to be OK, the onslaught of a splitting headache hit me like a force of nature.

  Typical.

  Feeling like my head was about to pop under the unimaginable force, I squeezed my eyes shut and grabbed my forehead with both hands. After an excruciating couple seconds, the pain subsided, and I coaxed my eyes open to find an unfamiliar scene laid out before me.

  No longer lying in my bed, I was standing on a rocky ledge jutting out from what appeared to be the near top of a massive, snow laden mountain in the center of a desolate valley. It was approaching dusk with the sun steadily falling below the horizon. Blocking my view of the surrounding landscape stood two figures on either side of an oversized torch that blazed bright with a hearty flame. Inching closer, I came to the quick realization that one of them was my pal Azazel. His unidentified counterpart was at least a head taller and carefully concealed his face inside a leather praetorian helmet deep within the hood of a brilliant white cloak. An almost tangible aura of pure white light silhouetted his powerful frame. The aura of an angel. A traitorous angel.

  “A minor set back at best, my Lord,” Azazel said encouragingly. “Rest assured that our losses in the shadow realm are more than trivial. The plan is very much on schedule despite the unforeseen events.”

  The hooded figure scoffed. “Is it your intention to insult me — Or do you simply take me for a fool?”

  “I do not understand, my Lord,” Azazel said uncomfortably.

  “There is nothing unforeseen about the events in the shadow realm. Our losses are the result of gross negligence. Your negligence.”

  “My Lord,” Azazel rebutted. “I simply did not anticipate —”

  “It is not your place to anticipate,” the hooded figure snarled. “It is your place to follow instruction. And yet again you prove incapable of doing so. You had but one simple objective - capture the Seventh of Seven. An objective you failed to deliver upon.“

  “I do apologize, my Lord,” Azazel subserviently replied as he knelt at the feet of his apparent better. “My actions were — regrettable. Please allow me the opportunity to correct them.”

  “Your petty hubris betrays you, brother. You reek of them — the humans,” he said with a sharp edge. “Compromise our endeavors once more and that wretched pit from which I plucked you all those many centuries ago will seem like a paradise in comparison with the eternal torment that lies in wait. Are we quite clear?”

  “Yes, my Lord,” Azazel muttered like a scolded child. “Abundantly.”

  “Then let us try this again,” said the White Hood motioning for him to stand. “The collection — it is secure?”

  “Of course. The enslaved Deacons remain safely concealed deep within the Earth.”

  “And what of their gifts?”

  “The extraction process is nearing completion, my Lord. Soon — the harnessed Wrath will be at your beckoning.”

  “And due to your indiscretion, we remain one mantle shy of the majority. Without that of the alpha or the omega — I cannot wield the Wrath.”

  “Regrettably, my Lord. However, please trust that I will soon rectify that dilemma.”

  The White Hood broke into a harrowing, deep-throated laugh.

  “I trust that you understand the consequence should you again fail to do so,” he said shifting his attention to the frozen plains. “It is possible, however, that your ineptitude has yielded a window of opportunity. With the fall of your precious realm, the resurgence of the anakim is undoubtedly perceived thwarted. We must strike while both the Guild and the seraphic court revel in this false victory. The hour of judgment approaches. Our children grow — hungry. Perhaps it is time they rise from the shadows and once again assert their dominance upon Father’s precious creation.”

  “Understood,” Azazel humbly muttered bowing his head as he spoke. “It shall be done.”

  As the vision started to blur, I reluctantly moved to the edge of the stone platform and gazed upon the valley below. Slowly taking in the scene, I was slammed with a wave of adrenaline as I came to the spine-chilling conclusion that I was wrong. The race of giants was not destroyed.

  There was more. Thousands more. Tens of thousands. The anakim were not wiped from the Earth. They were legion upon it.

  “No,” I murmured in horror as my eyes flew open, and I jumped from the bed in a cold sweat to find Stephen intently standing over me.

  “What did you See?” He asked.

  “It’s not over,” I grumbled as my face curled into an intense scowl.

  “And I’m gonna need a bigger gun.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Not much of substance is known of James MacGhil. According to popular theory, he fled his childhood home in rural New England to seek fame and fortune as an infantryman in the United States Army. Many years and misadventures later, he’s purportedly surrendered to middle age and rocking the suburbs in Tallahassee, Florida with the love of his life, two amazing kiddos, and a pair of slothful canines.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  If you’d told me ten years ago that at some point in the not so distant future I’d be writing a book — I would’ve told you to piss off. So as I sit in my study trying to coherently cobble together my humble thanks for the multitude of family, friends, and colleagues that helped me get here, I can’t help but feel a bit surreal about the whole thing.

  At any rate, here’s my best shot at acknowledging all the folks with undeniable culpability in the creation of this story, which by the way, was written over a period of two years spanning five states, four houses, countless hotels rooms, and more airplanes/airports than I can honestly remember. And I’m pretty sure I never wrote a single word during hours of daylight. So here we go …

  First and foremost, I’d like to express my undying gratitude to my beautiful wife, Sherrie — who not only put up with the ridiculous amounts of time, energy, and life force I poured into this effort over the past few years but consistently encouraged me to get after it. I would’ve quit long before I got started had she
not given me the much needed boot in the arse it required to coax me into writing the first sentence. For that, I will forever be grateful.

  Now that I’ve given my wife top bill, everyone else is in no particular order …

  That being understood, I need to throw some serious props to my Ranger buddy on this mission, Hans Holland, for — well, for pretty much helping take this whack job idea I had and turning it into a story. Hans was there from the very beginning and has probably read this book about a thousand times over during the course of its unnatural conception. Beyond the call of duty, he endured countless late night plot discussions (emails, text messages, phone calls, etc.) and subjected to more than a few horrifically bad turns I took along the way. Can’t thank him enough for walking every step of this epic journey by my side and for tuning down his Stephen Hawking-like intellect enough to work with me. Although he’s got an SAT score that’s higher than most alien life forms, I do take solace in the fact he’s a ginger kid and everybody knows that ginger kids have no soul. So at the very least I have that leg up on him — which is nice.

  Next on my list of no particular order is my first beta reader (and also my editor), Julie Gilmore. Julie was more than instrumental in this twisted production and supplied the undying enthusiasm that got this story over the finish line. I can’t begin to quantify the amount of time and energy she poured into this project but I’m more than grateful for her encouraging spirit and relentless attention to detail. And there’s the small fact that trying to edit the work of a ‘control enthusiast’ such as myself has to absolutely suck … that being understood — I’m really hoping she sticks around for the next couple books in the series. You rock, Jules! Fist bump …

  I’ve read somewhere that it takes twenty people or something like that to write a novel. To that point, I’d like to both acknowledge and thank my Wednesday night ‘Focus Group’ hommies of Mike Mahan, TJ Fields, and Jake Galley for not only hanging out on Wednesday nights and drinking beer but more importantly helping to shape my harebrained concepts and ideas into somewhat more coherent harebrained concepts and ideas. Specifically, I’d like to call out Mike ‘the Wonder Beard’ Mahan for employing his otherworldly Ivy League education and superior intellect to provide sage counsel and incredibly insightful critique throughout the writing of this novel. Much appreciated and valued. It’s Rhino Time!