Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4)

by James A. Hunter

  Back to the days when I was still married and happy. Back before the Vis and the Guild. Back before all the hurts and betrayals had piled up like a sink full of filthy dishes, stinking up the house, demanding to be dealt with. Back when the weight of the world was far, far, far from my shoulder. When I was invincible, immortal, and the scariest monsters in the world were Vietnamese guerillas, waiting to blow me to pieces.

  God, that seemed like a different life.

  The ride was far too short.

  Before I knew it, my driver was angling left, slashing through the ebb and flow of traffic—followed by a chorus of angry shouts and sporadic honks—eventually coming to a halt in front of what I could only assume was my destination. Both Ferraro and Darlene were already cooling their heels on the sidewalk out front, so this had to be the place. I pulled the earbuds out, slipped my iPod away, and paid the man with a handful of crumpled bills dug from my pocket.

  The cab driver zoomed away the second I was off the seat, quickly swallowed by the sea of amber headlights and crimson taillights. Gone.

  “Is this the right place?” Ferraro asked, canting her head toward the building off to her right.

  Our location did look awfully strange compared to the places neighboring it on every side. Wat Naga Thong resembled something transplanted from a different age. An age decidedly contrary to the faux glitz and neon glamour of the rest of Little Bangkok. A massive spire of gold, like an inverted top, jutted up into the murky sky overhead, flanked on either side by wooden buildings—their walls adorned with intricately wrought swirls of gold. Multitiered roofs, studded with bladelike projections fashioned to resemble serpent heads, protruded from the eaves.

  “Must be,” I replied. “Wat Naga Thong is supposed to be some sort of temple.” I gestured toward the weird building. “There weren’t any pictures in the case dossier, but this sure seems to fit the bill, and this is where the taxi drivers brought us.”

  “Oh, this is definitely it,” Darlene added. “After the arch-mage gave me the details, I took the liberty of looking the place up in the Guild library. Wat Naga Thong is the oldest Buddhist temple ever constructed in the Hub. It’s home to the monastic Order of the Middle Way, and is one of the largest repositories in the world on mystic teaching, enlightenment, and Theravada Buddhism. Our contact, Abbot Sodh, is the leader of this monastery.” She crinkled her nose and folded her hands together—a travel guide dispensing wisdom.

  “I don’t give a shit what it is,” I said. “Place could be the oldest fast-food chain in the Hub for all I care. The important thing to remember is we’re not the only folks interested in whatever info the abbot has to share.”

  “Which building do you think we should start with?” Ferraro asked, eyeing the temple proper, then the surrounding buildings in turn.

  “I’m gonna go with door number three, Monty.” I pointed at the hulking golden dome in the middle. Some gut instinct told me that was where the abbot would be, which sucked worse than having your eyelids stapled shut, because there were about a gajillion stairs between us and the temple entryway.

  With a grumble, I set off.

  We climbed up and up and up for what felt like a slow and miserable lifetime. At several points, I sorta wished those damned Gwyllgi had just finished me off in my sleep—nice and peaceful—which would’ve saved me from what amounted to my own personal version of hell. Friggin’ stairs. We weren’t living in the Dark Ages anymore, dammit. Where was the escalator?

  “Gosh,” Darlene groaned as we finally crested the last of the one million stairs leading to the top. She bent over, grabbing her knees as she pulled in labored breaths. “Feeling … that … in the … glutes,” she wheezed, followed by a long pause. “Jazzercise … did not … prepare me for that.” She paused again. “Really not looking forward to tomorrow,” she said, fingers working into her thighs.

  I snorted. “I’m right there with you, sister.” I plopped down onto my ass, taking a minute to catch my breath. Stairs are hard, okay, and the hot, muggy air didn’t make it any easier. Felt like I was breathing through a wet towel. “Getting too old for this bullshit. I’m gonna talk to the abbot about putting in an elevator. ’Cause seriously, this is awful.”

  “Stop your whining,” Ferraro said, one hand on her cocked-out hip, the other resting on the butt of her Glock, not even a glimmer of sweat gracing her brow. “You”—she speared me with a hard look—“are not too old, you just need to lay off all the fatty foods—”

  “Life’s not worth living without fatty foods,” I protested.

  “Seriously,” she said, steamrolling past my comment, “some days I can’t believe Lady Fate picked you to save the world. And who did the Guild send to keep you in check while you save the world? An overweight office worker who does Jazzercise and can’t beat a set of stairs.” She shook her head in utter disbelief, then muttered to herself. I heard the words “idiotic,” “incompetent,” “unprofessional,” and “lazy” more than a few times. A great FBI agent, but occasionally a little rough around the edges.

  “You’re … preaching to the … choir,” Darlene replied in between ragged breaths.

  After a few more minutes of deep, labored breathing, I finally gained my feet, then shuffled over and helped Darlene up, grabbing her hands and dragging her upright with a grunt and a heave.

  “You two ladies finally done playing grab-ass?” Ferraro asked, bringing around her shotgun. She slid back the pump, chambering a round with a soft clack. “If so, maybe we should talk strategy before we blunder in there. Come up with some kind of strategic game plan.”

  “What’re you thinking?” I asked, drawing my revolver from its holster, eyeing the cylinder, double-checking the rounds on instinct.

  “Well,” she said, “we don’t know what we’re up against here. There’s always a chance that someone beat us here, which means there could be hostiles waiting on the other side of that entryway.” She nodded toward a towering pair of double doors, which each looked as thick and sturdy as a bank vault. “And, even if we are the first ones here, there’s no guarantee this abbot is going to cooperate. So I say we breach and go in strong. Armed to the teeth and ready for anything that might be waiting for us.”

  She pulled out a flashbang, a matte-black cylinder that looked like a beer can. A type of grenade, but not one meant to kill. A flashbang was a common breaching device that put out a shit-ton of light and sound that would disorient any potential bad guys for a few minutes. “Sound good?” she asked, holding the flashbang toward me.

  “Groovy,” I replied, taking the cylinder. “I’ll pop this and roll right, you go left. Darlene, you’re gonna bring up the rear. Good with that?”

  “Jiminy Christmas, this is intense,” she said. “Okay, okay. I can do this. I’m ready. I’m a warrior. Should I have a gun?” she asked abruptly. “Because it seems like maybe I should have a gun.”

  Ferraro gave her a tight-lipped smile, then dug a small spray can of mace from her pocket. “Training wheels,” she said, then patted the woman on the shoulder. “And please try not to spray me.”

  “Alright, let’s go get us some answers,” I said, stacking up against the door.

  ELEVEN:

  Wat Naga Thong

  I charged into the temple, hard on the heels of the detonating flashbang, pistol drawn in one hand while the weaves for a force javelin or friction shield waited in the other. I’d entered expecting trouble, or at least the possibility of trouble, but what I found waiting for me was anything but.

  An octagonal chamber a thousand square feet, resplendent with so much gold even Donald Trump would’ve felt embarrassed. The walls were covered with beautifully detailed scenes of monks and monsters—some giving battle, others offering mercy—all in a sprawling tapestry of painted myth and legend.

  At the far side of the room, almost butting up against the wall, was a ginormous Buddha made of even more gold, sitting cross-legged, one arm raised in benediction, the other resting, palm open, in his la
p. A small, peaceful smile graced his thin lips. Strangely, the giant Buddha was sitting on the coils of a monster cobra that reared above him, sheltering him with seven—yes, seven—hooded heads. Next to the statue was a huge brass bell, which shone with an otherworldly amber light like the soft blaze of a faraway star.

  More bells, all smaller, and each holding their own ambient glow, littered the room: Protruding from the walls on brass hooks. Suspended on hooks from the vaulted ceiling. Everywhere.

  It was the man, however, sitting before the huge statue, in a pose mirroring the Buddha behind him, that caught and held my attention. He had a brilliant orange robe wrapped around his body, leaving one brown shoulder bare. Beneath him was a thin, tightly woven rice mat, tatami, with a delicate tea set placed directly before him. He sipped slowly, carefully, from a tiny cup, apparently unconcerned by either the flashbang or the gun-wielding thugs invading his holy site.

  Three more identical cups, tiny white porcelain things, were arrayed in a semicircle before him, almost as though he were expecting guests. Three guests.

  “You have no need for such weapons,” the man said, his voice clear but elderly, tinted with a Thai accent. He wasn’t a young man, that much was evident, but neither could I put an age to him. “You will find no trouble here.” He smiled, took a sip of tea, then added, “Not yet.”

  His eyes flickered to the wall behind us. I turned to find a clock of plain brown wood mounted above the door. “I know the business you are about and it is vital,” he said. “Vital. Of this there is no doubt. So come. Rest. Share a cup of tea with me as we reflect and I shall share a story with you. An old, old tale, forgotten to most, save me.”

  Because this guy seemed about as harmless as a toothless kitten—and how rude would it have been to reject his invitation to tea?—I stowed my gun. I shared a brief look with Ferraro, who quirked an eyebrow then shrugged, likewise slinging her weapon. Darlene looked about as confused by the strange scene as I felt, but didn’t offer any protest either, so, with a grunt and a nod, I padded across the floor toward the monk.

  “Look, your royal monkness.” I dipped my head in an awkward bow. “As much as tea and story time sounds awesome—and believe me it sounds great, really—we’re sorta in a rush. There’s this other guy, a really bad dude, who’s probably on his way here right now. To kill us. To kill you. To end the world. That kind of thing.”

  The monk shrugged one shoulder, took a sip of tea, smacked his lips, then waved one hand through the air. “This man who follows, you needn’t concern yourself with him. Not yet. Nor do you need to concern yourself with my safety.” A sad, knowing frown crept over his face, then disappeared in a blink. “You have come to hear of the Fourth Seal Bearer, yes?”

  “That’s amazing,” Darlene said, mouth falling open in awe. “How did you know?”

  The monk barked a laugh, a breezy sound like the wind rustling spring grass. “I like you very much.” He beamed at her. “Very different from these two, that much is clear, but you have a good heart. There is much insecurity in you. And fear. Of not being good enough. Of not being more. Of not being them”—he swept an arm toward me and Ferraro—“but you are you and that is good. All that we are is the result of what we have thought. And what you think, you become. I would know your name, child.”

  Darlene scooted forward and dropped onto the mat, awkwardly folding her feet beneath her. “I’m Darlene, Darlene Drukiski, from the Guild of the Staff.” She extended a hand in greeting, but the monk just smiled, fine crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, and shook his head.

  “It is not permitted,” he replied simply, “but I greet you in peace all the same, Darlene Drukiski from the Guild of the Staff. You and your companions both.”

  Ferraro and I followed Darlene’s lead. She took a spot on the left, while I took a seat in the middle, directly across from the wizened abbot.

  “Looks like you were waiting for us,” I commented, nodding toward the tea, though not picking up my cup. In my business, taking drinks from complete strangers—even friendly old monks—is a good way to end up choking to death on rat poison or worse.

  “Indeed, I have been waiting for you,” he replied. “Though I do not know you, I have seen you three often in my dreams. Heralds, arriving to announce my death.” He paused, glancing up at the clock adorning the wall behind us. “Yes, the hour of my end draws near. Second by second, minute by minute, it creeps closer. It is around the corner, riding upon the shoulders of the man who follows after you. A man, both youthful and ancient, called the Savage Prophet by some.”

  Suddenly, I felt light-headed, the blood frozen in my veins, my stomach sinking as though someone had just drop-kicked me from the cargo hold of a C130 cruising along at 13,000 feet. Coming fast in the wake of that cocktail of emotional turmoil was anger. A red rage that flooded in on the edges of my vision.

  The Savage Prophet.

  That’s what the monk had said.

  I’d heard that title—or was it some sort of formal name?—before, in a shadow version of a nightmarish Seattle. A nightmare future where the Big Bad pulling the strings behind this whole shitstorm had won. A nightmare future where I didn’t exist, because some shithead called the Savage Prophet had done me in.

  “What did you say?” I demanded, voice a threatening growl which promised impending violence.

  “Ah. I suspected you might know of this man,” the monk replied, unworried by the menace in my words or, apparently, his own approaching doom. He spoke the same way you might talk about a bit of bad weather rolling in.

  “His story, however,” the monk said, “is not mine to tell. Besides, I know little of it. What I do know”—he glanced up at the clock again—“is that he will arrive shortly. He and a companion. Then, he will murder me.” He tapped his heart lightly with one hand. “A noble death, though. Of all the ways to die, there are many worse. But that is my story and, though I’d gladly tell it, time is short and the story you must hear is that of my friend and master, Luang Phor Ong, guardian of the Seal of Death.”

  “No.” Ferraro said, the word a whip-crack of command. “If there’s a killer on his way to this temple, we need to leave. Now. We can fight our way out if we have to, but it’d be better if we weren’t here at all.” The monk tried to speak, but Ferraro cut him off with an upraised hand. “Listen, you can tell us whatever stories you want once we’re clear of here, but I don’t make it a point of letting people get killed, not if I can stop it.”

  She made a move to get up, but the monk didn’t. He sat as stoically and steadfastly as an old mountain stone. “Your passion for life is admirable. Truly. But I will not leave. I am the abbot, and my duty is to the temple. I will not abandon my post. Besides, even if I were to consent, which I will not, the cost would not be worth paying.”

  He paused, lips turning up thoughtfully as he considered us. Almost as if he were deciding what to say, how much to tell us. “Ong,” he finally said, “was merciful enough to show me my death, but he has shown me this thing too: should I refuse my fate and walk away from this place, you three will die. All of you. And should you die, the world may well die with you. Fate is a tricky business, as delicate as a swaddled newborn, and betimes even the smallest change can have terrible consequences. My death tips the balance in favor of life. In favor of your lives. At least for a short time.”

  “Listen to me, old-timer,” I snapped, patience slipping away, evaporating like boiling water. “You don’t even know us, and the last thing I need on my conscience is some geriatric monk dying for me. I’ve got enough friggin’ trouble sleeping as is.”

  “It is what must be, that is all,” the monk said, unconcerned. “Perhaps you think I fear death, but this is error. Even death is not to be feared by one who has lived wisely. Now, please drink with me as I tell you of my dear friend.”

  Ferraro looked torn—a woman who genuinely didn’t know what the right thing to do was. But, at last, she plopped back down, though she kept stealing peeks towar
d the entryway.

  “Drink.” He gestured toward the cups, and there was something oddly urgent in the motion. “It is an important ceremony, binding you as friends of the Wat. Drink.” He glanced at the huge bell, suspended by the Buddha, then motioned once more toward the tea.

  With a sigh and an eye roll, I picked up my tiny cup, about the size of a shot glass, and downed the contents. The liquid was hot, but not too hot, and strong, though enjoyable. A little bitter, but tempered with a hint of mint. It hit my belly with a warm splash, and a pleasant heat spread out like a shot of good hooch, suffusing my limbs. I cocked an eyebrow, then let out a soft belch. “Not bad.”

  Ferraro and Darlene each eyed their glasses before taking small slugs.

  “Good, good,” the abbot said as we drank, carefully running a hand over the creases in his robes. “Now, the first thing you must know is that Ong is not as other men are. Nor am I.” The monk’s features distorted, bubbling and bulging out. Sleek serpentine scales and green eyes, black slits running down the middle, showed briefly, but quickly disappeared, leaving only the human-seeming monk behind.

  “The initiates of our order are all Naga Lords,” he said, “descended from the mother of our kind, Kadru. Ong, though, is more. He is a king. Our king.” With deliberate care, he set down his minuscule teacup and swept an arm toward the Buddha statue behind him. The Buddha statue with a giant, seven-headed cobra looming over it.

  “Yes,” the monk said, seeming to read the question in my mind. “That is Ong in his true form. But before you judge him on his appearance alone, let me show you a bit of his story.”

  He raised one hand into the air, palm up. A globe of brilliant light the size of a soccer ball, shifting through the hues of the rainbow, burst to life, spinning lazily above the monk’s hand. “In a time long forgotten by most, a time so ancient the reality has become legend and the legend, myth, my master dwelt in the lush untouched jungles of India.”