Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4) (47 page)

Before Darlene or Ferraro could protest further, I conjured a tremendous gust of wind, a force construct that slapped against the three women, hurling them through the portal and into the Turkish countryside. A look of shock and hurt seemed to flicker across Ferraro’s face for a moment, but then the portal snapped closed, leaving me alone. With them gone and safe, the only thing left was to deal with the Prophet and claim the Fourth Seal for myself.

I spun and remounted my Garuda, booting the thing into motion. With a shriek, my mount broke into a trot and leapt back into the air, wings beating as we soared up, leaving the remaining Brown-Robes to their own devices, focusing instead on the Prophet above.

He was totally fixated on Ong, swooping around the Snake King like a buzzing fly, refusing to be swatted down. In many ways Orobas—the demon essence within the Prophet—was like a bug: a spider, a weaver of webs who preferred to work from the shadows whenever possible, using his prophetic talents to arrange the deck in his favor. In open combat, though, he was no match for Azazel and he was often oblivious to the real world. That had always been Orobas’s weakness: overconfidence. He relied too heavily on those visions of his, to the exclusion of everything else.

With a whisper of will I conjured a cloak of illusion around myself, disappearing in a blink as I hurtled in from directly below him. He’d dodged this same move before, but this time he didn’t see me coming. I raised one hand and unleashed a ball of flame that smacked into the Garuda’s belly, roaring up around the creature, setting its wings on fire all at once. I swooped past the flaming creature, dismissing the illusion as I flew. I caught the Prophet’s face, both shocked and pained, as his mount dropped.

I flipped him the bird as he fell.

Spiraling down and down and down. Apparently, he hadn’t seen that coming. With the Prophet gone—though not dead I was sure—there was only Ong left to deal with. I circled back toward the Naga King, twirling my hammer, baiting him.

“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.

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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.