Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4)

by James A. Hunter

  He paused for a beat, adjusting the voluminous sleeves of his robe. “How did you know about me?” he finally asked. “That I was the man behind the hood?”

  “A tattoo,” I replied with a shrug, not willing to look at him or take his measure. Jack had done a lot of bad things, and he’d been in the game a helluva lot longer than me. He had a lifetime of war, killing, and torture tucked away under his belt, and I had to wonder what that’d done to his mind. Was he a vision of what I would be like in another two hundred years, assuming I lived that long? I didn’t know. “I caught a peek during our fight,” I said. “Didn’t take Darlene long to find it listed in your personnel file.”

  He sighed, frowned, then tightened his grip on Ferraro’s hair, pulling her head back further until she winced in pain. For the briefest moment, I thought about just roasting the lying bastard on the spot, turning his ass into a heap of human barbeque, but then dismissed the notion as a thought exercise in poor decision-making. I could do that, sure, but no way would Ferraro walk away in one piece, and that was unacceptable.

  “It’s the little things that always trip you up in the end,” Black Jack said. “Though I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. I was hoping to keep my identity hidden until after things were settled back in Moorchester, but the last wall of resistance has fallen, so I suppose it’s something of an unnecessary precaution now.”

  “And what about the rest of you?” I asked, cool and calm on the surface though seething underneath. “The rest of you dirty sons a bitches wanna come clean?” I eyed each of the Brown-Robes in turn.

  “No, I think not,” Black Jack interjected, then chuckled, rocking on his heels. “Knowledge is power, young Lazarus, and without names, you have no targets. Without targets, we will be able to work free from reprisals as we consolidate our power base.”

  “Yeah, bunch of chickenshits,” I said. “Just like I thought.”

  “Not at all,” Jack countered, “just prudent and pragmatic—not so different from yourself.”

  “Shut your fucking mouth,” I snarled, eye narrowing, all semblance of composure suddenly flying out the window. Lady Fate’s words tickled at the back of my mind: A world under your thumb, Yancy Lazarus … And a cruel thumb it shall be. “We’re nothing alike. You’re a power hungry, murdering monster, and that’s not me. It’s not me and never will be.”

  A small smile broke over the planes of Jack’s hard-worn face. “I don’t imagine I will be able to change your mind, you are a stubborn man, but you should know the truth behind our revolt.”

  “Jack,” the Prophet said, shifting his body so he could eyeball the old warhorse, “this, this spiel of yours, it’s not going to make a difference anyway—nothing you say is going to change anything”—he tapped a finger at his temple—“so let’s not waste our time.”

  “That hardly matters,” Jack replied, a scowl marring his face. “He deserves to know, ehh? What he does with that information is up to him, but he deserves to know. He may oppose us, Prophet, but that does not make him our enemy.”

  The Prophet grunted and refocused his attention on the crook in my hand, damn near salivating over the thing like a junkie eyeing his next fix. “Whatever. Just make it quick.”

  “No,” I interjected, glowering at Jack. “He’s right, asshole. Nothing you say is gonna change jack-shit, so why don’t you save your breath? Let’s just get to the explosions.”

  “Be that as it may,” he said, nodding his blocky head. “But I feel obliged to tell you, because intentions matter. You have only seen the aftermath of our planning, but the why is important. The truth is, Yancy, you inspired our movement eighteen years ago when you walked away from the Guild. This, all of this”—he swept a thick hand toward the robed men, toward the shrine and the statues—“was all indirectly set into motion by you, so you can understand the irony that it should be you who stands so firmly in our path to victory.”

  I squinted, canted my head to one side, and cleared my throat. “You might wanna head over to Costco and pick up a family-sized pack of toilet paper,” I said evenly, straight-faced, “cause your mouth just turned into a giant, gaping asshole and it’s vomiting an absolute fountain of bullshit right now.”

  He laughed, remarkably good-natured considering the circumstances. “No bullshit, as you say. I’ve had my reservations about the Guild since they elevated me to Elder back in ’57,” he said offhandedly. “Even then it was growing too soft. But when you called for war, that changed everything. Decided me. The Council abandoned you, which was disgraceful. They abandoned Ailia, who I loved like a daughter. An unforgivable act of cowardice and, in so doing, they also abandoned me and the principles the Guild was founded upon. That, well that was simply intolerable.

  “The Guild had become a weak, spineless beast. A sick animal far too feeble to defend its members. An institution controlled by corporate ladder climbers and political insiders concerned only with their own best interests. You left the Guild in protest. I started planning my coup in protest. And, after eighteen years of diligent planning and careful maneuvering, the fruits of my labor are almost within reach. After years of weakness, I am on the cusp of fashioning a new Guild. A united Guild. One free from red tape. One that stands for something again. One that stands for its members and its principles.”

  I paused, a terrible heat bubbling up inside me. “You’re really gonna stand there and justify yourself to me? You’re gonna try to pass the buck and pin this on what happened to me eighteen years ago? You’re full of shit, Jack, you and all your hooded cronies. Save your lies for someone else, ’cause we both know that you’re only in it for power like every other asshole monster out there in the big wide world.”

  He shrugged one shoulder, indifferent to my accusation. “Given your track record and experience, I can see why you might think that, but I’m doing this for the good of our people.”

  “Oh yeah, Jack? Well, if you’re so fucking altruistic”—I was screaming now, face red, neck hot—“then why in the hell are you working with the fucking Morrigan? Huh, Jack?”

  He clucked his tongue softly, a bemused father correcting an ignorant child. “Your emotion is such a strength, but it has always been your weakness, too. A double-edged sword.” He paused, lips pursed, regarding me with somber eyes. “I am working with her because she is powerful and capable. I’m working with her because she understands that the strong should lead, instead of allowing soft men and women to hold the reins of power, leaving folk like us to carry out their dirty work. And she is not as unreasonable as you—we have even discussed the possibility of Ailia’s release. A concession and measure of good will.”

  Ailia’s release.

  The thought hit my heart like a hammer blow, bruising my already battered soul. Could Jack really convince the Morrigan to give her back? To let Ailia go after all this time? I’d spent years trying to find a way to undo what the Morrigan had done, scouring old tomes for powerful exorcism rituals. Tracking down rogue priests and other dusty principalities, only to come up empty-handed. What would I give for Jack to be right?

  The world?

  Yeah, maybe.

  But then Ferraro grunted and shifted her weight, drawing my lone eye back to her, bound and captive on the ground, hair twined about Jack’s fist. Her face, though marked by violence, seemed to plead with me, to remind me of why I was doing this, what was at stake.

  Maybe I’d let the world burn for Ailia, but could I let Ferraro burn, too?

  No.

  That, I wasn’t willing to do.

  And even if I gave up, gave in, and somehow got Ailia back, could she live with the price I’d paid to save her? I didn’t think so.

  Shit, maybe Jack had good intentions—the things he said did make a certain sense to me, they were even thoughts I’d entertained a time or two—but I could never be on board with the shit he’d done. Killing bad guys was one thing. Killing a bunch of innocent people for some nebulous “greater good” was another entirely.

>   I raised a hand, palm out. “Enough, Jack,” I said, the anger raging in me, making it next to impossible to think. “I’m done listening to you. I trusted you, believed in you, and you shot me in the back, so I’m done with you. Done. Say one more word and our deal’s off—I’ll embrace the power of this crook”—my hand clenched down on the wooden shaft until it groaned under the pressure—“then I’ll do my damnedest to murder you and every one of your flunkies. So just shut your shit-spewing mouth.”

  Disappointment seemed to dash across his face, then he dipped his head in resignation.

  I turned my attention on the Prophet. On Ferraro. I was gonna save her and I’d do it without betraying the last sliver of decency I had left in me.

  “Let’s get this over with already, huh?”

  “Fine by me,” the Prophet replied, folding his thick arms. “Though for what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t switch sides—I’m looking forward to killing you. Now, here’s how this is going to happen. Elder Engelbrecht will bring you the girl, you’ll give him the crook. Once the exchange is complete, I’ll graciously give you a five-minute window to get on your cruiser, there”—he nodded at the bike—“and go. If I see you after that five minutes, I will execute you, eat the heart from your chest, reclaim Ferraro, and hand her over to the tender mercies of Fast Hands Steve.”

  I nodded my agreement to his terms. “For what it’s worth,” I replied, dropping my hand to the butt of my pistol, a not-so-subtle threat, “even if I had switched sides, I still would’ve caved your head in with a rock and pitched your body into a vat of acid. On principle.”

  He bobbed his head, a fencer acknowledging a touch. “Elder Engelbrecht”—the Prophet jerked his head toward the no-goodnik traitor—“please retrieve my crook.”

  Without comment, Black Jack bent over, picked Ferraro up, and casually tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of concrete. He didn’t struggle under her weight as he strode toward me, confidence marking his steps.

  Black Jack was only a few feet out when a host of bulky stone statues exploded onto the pathway: A whirlwind of movement, accompanied by the heavy clomp of mammoth feet against the walkways, as monstrous figurines of concrete and stone swarmed our position like killer bees attacking intruders too close to the hive. A trio of creatures—a female Naga, a massive earthen toad, and a thick muscled demon with a mouth full of wicked fangs—collided with the Brown-Robe posse behind the Prophet, unleashing absolute savagery.

  In the same instant, another creature—the enormous body of a man sporting a loincloth, but with the broad head of an elephant—charged in from the dense brush, barreling into a very confused looking Black Jack. Huge fists like a pair of meaty hams lashed out, swatting both the treacherous Elder and Ferraro into the air like pop flies, their bodies tumbling end over end.

  I watched for a moment, completely slack-jawed.

  What in the hell was going on here? What were these things? Guardians of some sort if I had to guess. If so, they must’ve belonged to Ong.

  Those thoughts were fleeting things, though, notions I didn’t have time to dwell on, what with the weapon-wielding Naga woman rushing at me. She moved like an incoming freight train, huge tail pumping, weapons spinning, her lips pulled back in a ferocious snarl.

  THIRTY-TWO:

  Paperwork Power

  The stone woman cannonballing toward me unleashed a circular chakram—a razor sharp-discus, twin to the metal Frisbee Xena the Warrior Princess was so fond of—which sailed my way, slicing the air with a soft whistle.

  I breathed out, clearing my mind, dispelling fear and worry, and moved on instinct, opening myself to the Vis, reaching into the deep ocean of power thrumming in the air of this strange shrine—unused energy just waiting to be exploited. I purposely avoided drawing on the Nox, though; couldn’t afford to touch the shit, no matter how much I needed the help. Not with Azazel’s prison so weak. Still, even without the Nox, time came to a herky-jerky crawl as power flooded into me like a crashing tsunami, sharpening every sense, filling my limbs with power and strength.

  Everything lurched, slowing to half-speed, then to quarter-speed:

  Explosions of power ripped at the night as the Brown-Robes unleashed a torrent of power at the incoming masonry.

  A torrent of flame flashed through the dark …

  A colossal rumble followed as another mage hurled a ragged chunk of stone the size of a wheelbarrow at the stone toad, broadsiding the creature, sending it skittering through a flower garden, chips of stone flying from the impact …

  More flashes followed:

  Blooms of orange, red, and gold flame, washing the scene with fiery power …

  Misty walls of green acid, dissolving stone arms. Melting through carved weapons …

  Tendrils of silver power ensnaring the stone guardians, snapping off earthen limbs. Thunderous cracks reverberated through the garden like gunshots …

  Ferraro sailed through the air, bound, helpless, and on a flight trajectory that would likely leave her with a broken neck …

  And the whole while, the deadly chakram careened toward me, eager, hungry to part my head from my shoulders. The Naga lunged, still crawling through molasses, her curved sword whipping out, ready to spill my guts onto the jungle floor.

  I breathed in, and out, centering myself, preparing.

  I could do this, dammit. I needed to do this, and if I got it wrong, even a little, everything would come apart at the seams.

  On instinct, on the level of subconscious thought, my left hand crept forward, palm up, a shimmering bank of reddish fog exploding in front of me, swelling and spreading from the ground, stretching and crawling upward, forming a hazy wall higher than my head. In the same instant, I twirled, thrusting out the crook. The staff of Winter quivered beneath my palm, vibrating with a feral hunger as I channeled power through the reedy shaft. A tight globe of emerald light exploded from the end, speeding toward Ferraro—still flying, falling, careening toward the ground.

  Then, before I could watch the fruit of my labors, I crouched low and hurled myself to one side, arms extended.

  Time snapped back into full speed all at once, my constructs rippling into life almost as one. The chakram, less than a foot away from me, plowed into the reddish mist—a quick-and-dirty friction shield—all of the weapon’s momentum suddenly converted into intense heat turned back against the disk, dissolving the circular blade into a spray of harmless, slow-moving dust. I couldn’t see Ferraro, but I could feel my second construct—a shimmering dome of shifting greens—snap in place around her.

  The hasty working enveloped her in an elastic sphere of densely packed air. Hopefully it’d cushion her tumble enough to keep her from breaking anything important. Like her neck or back or skull.

  Even with the chakram gone, however, I still had a curved scimitar sweeping toward my stomach. But I was already in motion, curling into a dive that carried me just inches below the slashing blade. I tucked into a tight ball, drawing in my feet, hoping the stone Naga wouldn’t clip my ankle and chop off one of my friggin’ feet—I’d already lost more than my fair share of body parts. My arms slapped against spongy greenery—some thorn-covered shrub stabbed at my hands and face—as I rolled through a wild garden and got to my feet, spinning to face the statue.

  The Naga woman barreled into my friction shield, the mist eating at her blade and her lanky arms. All eight of ’em. She hardly noticed, though, twirling with an impossibly fluid grace and speed, turning on a dime and lunging at me, a barbed trident jabbing out while a battle-axe slashed toward my noggin, intent on cleaving me clean in two—

  I dropped back a step, spinning the crook as I moved, smacking the trident off course with a clumsy strike, then swinging it upward, narrowly catching the furious axe-blow along the length of the shaft.

  The crook, a thin and fragile thing, didn’t look capable of withstanding such a brutal assault, but despite its appearance it was no mere object of wood. The crook was imbued with ancient
fae power, made far more resilient than rock or stone. With a snarl on my lips, I sent Vis coursing through the weapon: the temperature plummeted, biting cold worked into the axe head, and ice chips formed on the stone weapon. A gentle surge of will followed and the blade exploded, stone made brittle in the intense chill.

  Then, while the Naga woman stupidly regarded the jagged stump of her axe, I spun the crook in a wide arc, thrusting the curved head forward, pumping a flood of raw, unformed energy through the handle, allowing that power to be shaped by the near-sentience of the staff.

  A tight ball of blue, like a knot of frozen lake ice, punched into the Naga’s stomach—or whatever might’ve passed for a stomach—like a missile. The orb of power passed through its rocky exterior like a hot knife through butter, followed by a whomp. Veins of blue rippled beneath the creature’s stone skin; whatever power held it together faltered, flickered, died. She probed the wound in its center with one stone hand, a look of dumb confusion on its face. Confusion gave way to puzzlement before finally turning to shock as the creature disintegrated, falling apart to hunks of freezing stone.

  Poof. A pile of dust and debris you could suck up with a shop vac.

  I glanced at the crook, reminding myself of its absolute badassery, then imagined exactly how much damage the Prophet would be capable of with the weapon in his already formidable hands. That was grade-A nightmare fuel, there.

  The thought was immediately interrupted as the Prophet stepped out from behind a world-class veil and sucker punched me right in the gut. Right in the friggin’ gut.

  A jackhammer blow I could feel in my balls. With a wheeze I doubled over, air rushing from my lungs, leaving me gasping for breath, lips smacking as I fruitlessly worked to suck in oxygen. Dammit, that guy hit hard. The Prophet offered me a malicious grin, enjoying my sudden pain, then reached over and pried the crook from my weakened fingers. His eyes burned a hungry, demonic violet as he regarded the staff. Then, he brought the crook swishing through the air, smashing the wood against my temple, spiking me into the ground like a volleyball.