Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4)

by James A. Hunter

  “Buné,” I called, “you worthless sack of pigeon shit.”

  “Ahh, there you are, Azazel,” he replied, the noise like a sonic boom as a huge head swerved at me. “I was beginning to think you feared to face me, little cousin.”

  “Afraid?” I called, voice unrecognizable. “No. Just biding my time.” I shot in, swinging my mount left as I brought the warhammer around in a brutal arc, smashing the blunted head into one of Ong’s giant eyes. The hammer flared purple, red, then black as Ong’s serpentine eye burst, viscous fluid spurting out. The great serpent reared, throwing its wounded head back, roaring out death and hate.

  “I’ll eat your soul, mortal,” the creature bellowed. “I will burn you from the Tapestry of Fate. I will unmake you!” The creature shifted and slid, its many mouths snapping open wide, terrible deathly light building in each fanged mouth again. Exactly as I wanted.

  I spun my mount and charged toward the yawning mouth. I bellowed out my defiance as my Garuda shot into that light. My mount slammed into Ong’s lower jaw and throat, pitching down. Its neck broke from the impact, flinging me forward, head-on into Ong’s maw.

  The deathly light within washed over me, temporarily blinding me, but the rot and decay wouldn’t touch me. Couldn’t. I was surrounded by Nox, already encased in rot and decay. Dangerous as fire is, it can’t burn flame. Ong thrashed his head back and forth in sudden shock, a ginormous dog shaking a chew toy, fighting to dislodge me. But I dug down, talons sinking into Ong’s rough tongue, while the spikes along my arms and shoulders further entrenched me.

  I wormed forward, dragging myself hand over hand, knees pumping as I low crawled toward the snake’s throat.

  Something tugged at my ankle—probably another of Ong’s heads working to pull me free—but I was already lodged too deep. With a roar and a final heave, I pulled free and slid down the back of Ong’s tunnel-like gullet. Bony quills met me, long, inverted spikes designed to keep prey from wriggling back out, but that didn’t bother me since I didn’t want to go out—I wanted to go down. The powerful muscles in Ong’s throat pulsed, contracted, the thorny spikes working me deeper, toward his belly. Toward his heart.

  I couldn’t see anything, the world was darkness and viscous slim, but I put all that from my mind, instead searching for the steady thubb-thubb-thubb of the Naga King’s beating heart. The descent felt like a long, creeping lifetime, but then I sensed the heart, pulsing damn near next to my head, loud as a drum. With a grunt, I wriggled my hand over to the fleshly membrane separating me from my prize. Purple flame burst to life around my hand, spreading up my arm; the thick muscle parted beneath my fingers.

  I could feel the great Naga shake and quiver around me, howling in impotent rage, knowing his day was done.

  The flesh finally gave way, and Ong’s heart throbbed in front of my face, giant muscles opening and contracting like an angry fist. Like Ong himself, the organ was massive. Friggin’ thing was at least as big as a MINI Cooper, maybe bigger, and had to weigh a couple of tons, easy. But even with all that mass, it was easy to see the Seal: a crystal the size of a robin’s egg, pulsing with deathly green light, directly in the center of the huge organ. With a sadistic grin, I began shearing my way through the thick, fibrous tissue, my claws making the task a breeze. In moments my hand closed around the gem encased in a smaller sac of leathery red meat.

  My world shook as I pulled the fleshy sac free—Ong toppling with one last colossal roar.

  Dinnertime.

  THIRTY-EIGHT:

  Through Demon Eyes

  Azazel tore his way from the cavernous, slick belly of his brother’s host, obsidian talons making short work of the inner tissue. The scales were made of sterner stuff, but he conjured more purple flame, Nox, which covered both hands like a glove, crawling up past his thorny elbows. The thick scales parted as smoothly and easily as silk, then he was pushing his way free, into the jungle city of Bhogavati.

  A monster born into the world once more.

  It was a mess out there. A glorious, bloody, chaotic battlefield, which felt like home to the demon lord. He smiled and ran his forked tongue over the fangs filling his mouth like pieces of broken glass. Good to be in the flesh again. So good.

  The thick, feathered bodies of the formidable Garuda army littered the ground, their flesh already drying out, shriveling to the desiccated corpses they were in truth. Soon they would be dust. All dust. The great race of bird-creatures extinct at last, destroyed by the power of his brother, Buné the Chloros. And what power. Among his kith and kin there were not many who could stand up to Azazel, but Buné could. He was a dangerous creature, raw and powerful beyond imagining, but Azazel was powerful and shrewd. Crafty.

  Despite being the demon of war, he was no mindless brute, but a careful strategist and masterful tactician.

  A tactician well prepared for the arrival of his kin. Azazel had spent his time in captivity well, expending only a fractional amount of his sizeable power on escaping the prison his host and the moronic water-spirit, Cassius, had confined him to. He’d known all along how this game would play out, and not with any underhanded divinations like his cuz Orobas, riding around in that Prophet fellow. No, he knew the mage Lazarus would eventually call on him when the odds were sufficiently stacked against him—thousands of years’ worth of experience had taught Azazel such lessons well.

  Patience was a valuable ally to any true warrior, a carefully cultivated virtue. With patience and time, any enemy was bound to error. And in war, error was tantamount to defeat.

  So instead of turning his strength toward escape, he’d offered a token display of effort, keeping the mage on his toes while he spent the rest of his energy designing a holding cell for Buné. A containment prison that would allow Azazel to harness the death demon’s essence without relinquishing his control over the host body. He could feel his cuz confined in the subconscious lockbox, a cell designed just for him. A cell he would never escape from, not without Azazel’s express blessing.

  A blessing he would never receive.

  He didn’t need his cuz’s cooperation, though, just his formidable power, and that he now possessed.

  Once more he regarded the field of battle with hungry eyes, surveying the countless dead. Buné had single-handedly enabled Ong to eradicate the natural enemy of the Naga, to wipe them out root and branch. A compelling reminder of what the demonic hosts were capable of. It was also an equally compelling reminder of what happened to enemies foolish enough to cross the Horsemen of the Seals.

  Complete and total eradication.

  Azazel had many such enemies who needed repaying.

  Grand lords and generals of Hell, who’d incurred his wrath thousands of years ago. They’d bound him to the Seal, a check to his insatiable lust for bloodshed and his unquenched ambition. They’d locked him away, but now he was out. Truly free, at least for a time, and with Buné’s power in his grasp, he could make everyone pay. True, he would need to continue to do the host’s bidding—which meant searching out the puppeteer collecting the rest of his kin—but that was fine. Perhaps the divine decrees bound him to serve his host, but that would serve his purposes as well.

  Azazel was no fan of competition, after all, and if someone—other than himself, obviously—gathered too many Seals, they could rival his power. Unacceptable.

  First, though, he would head to Hell. Time for a little well-deserved vengeance on those who had slighted him so terribly, then he’d continue the mage’s work as Hand of Fate. He nodded his horned head, a cruel sneer drawing across his face, and flicked a hand through the air, parting reality with a thought. Opening a gateway to his true home. To the consuming fires of Gehenna. He stepped through.

  Time for Hell to pay.

  Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

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  Or you can check out the first episode in my other Urban Fantasy series, MudMan—starring a dysfunctional, socially awkward, vigilante, shapeshifting golem—which takes place in the same Lazarus universe. Though Yancy Lazarus isn’t the main character, it’s still an awesome book, so pick it up here: www.Amazon.com/dp/B01BX7PT7M

  About the Author

  Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s a real thing. I’ve also been a missionary and international aid worker in Bangkok, Thailand. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

  Okay … the last one is only in my imagination.

  Currently, I’m a stay at home Dad—taking care of my two kids—while also writing full time, making up absurd stories that I hope people will continue to buy. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

  Dedication

  For Warren “Skip” Wilson: druid, wizard, friend, father, husband, book-lover, and ever-gentle soul. A rare person, indeed. You will be missed terribly and the world will be a little darker without you. Love you. Rest in Peace.

  Special Thanks

  I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, daughter, Lucy, and son, Samuel. A special thanks to my parents, Greg and Lori. A quick shout out to my brother Aron and his whole brood—Eve, Brook, Grace, and Collin. Brit, probably you’ll never read this, but I love you too. Here’s to the folks of Team Lazarus, my awesome Alpha and Beta readers who helped make this book both possible and good:

  Dan Goodale, Megan “Teal Canary” Meyers, Nell Justice, Jen “Ivana” Wadsworth, eden Hudson, Scott Hoehner, Heather Copeman, Dawn Cornish, Joan Carmouche-Hairston, James Burns, Renee Robertazzi, Amber McKee, Michele Roland, Robert Olsen, and Bob “Gunslinger” Singer. They read the messy, early drafts so that no one else had to; thanks guys and gals.

  Another big thanks goes to my ironically-hipster writing buddies, Amanda Robinson, Kelsi Martin, Brian Howard, and Meagan—the best sounding board on the planet. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Tamara Blain who rocked this book (if you need editing, go to her, she’s seriously awesome: www.acloserlookediting.com/).

  —James A. Hunter, September 2016

  Copyright

  Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by James A. Hunter and Shadow Alley Press, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

  JamesAHunter@outlook.com