Savage Prophet: A Yancy Lazarus Novel (Episode 4) (45 page)

No. I ripped my gaze away from her still form, refusing to look at her for another second. I couldn’t afford to think about her now, so instead I excised my feelings altogether, surgically removing them with an effort of will. Shoving them into a little box in the back of my head, locking them away for latter examination. Then, I fixed my sights on the monstrous snake-god coiled above the temple in the distance. Time to end this thing.

THIRTY-SIX:

Dogfight

I soared over the treetops, staying as low as I could, dodging the occasional swooping Garuda or the towering tualang trees jutting from the canopy like gnarled fingers. And, miracle of miracles, I found surprisingly little resistance on my way toward Ong. With the Brown-Robes and Judges flinging around so much power, most of the flapping, undead guardians ignored me completely, focusing on the flashier threats below.

Before I knew it, the jungle’s edge dropped away, cut back from both the mammoth Bodhi tree and the epic pyramid, which sat in a grassy clearing a couple thousand feet in diameter. From a distance, the temple had been damn intimidating: an ancient thing dominating the pristine jungle in every direction, drawing the eye like a rough gash across an otherwise beautiful face. Up close, it was even more intimidating. The stones were old and worn, crumbling in places, many carved with glyphs and pictures of Nagas doing all kinds of things:

Terrible scenes of snakemen ripping the wings from fierce Garuda. Garuda, in turn, slashing open the bellies of prone Naga.

Snakewomen having little snake babies, which looked capable of ingesting a full-grown man. Totally adorable, am I right?

Also, lots and lots of pictures of the Naga King ruling his subjects. Watching over the Buddha. Sitting atop his towering temple. Waging war against countless horrors.

And speaking of ol’ Ong, up close he was also a thousand times more terrifying. Like staring down a pack of T. rex with chainsaws in their stubby arms and head-mounted bazookas that fired great white sharks. At this point, however, there was nothing left to do but fly my disgruntled ass all the way up into the stratosphere and try to kick that shitstain right in the teeth. His giant, knife-blade teeth. My mount seemed reluctant to ascend further, though whether that was a genuine feeling, or just a subtle tremor picked up from me, I couldn’t say.

When I urged him up, however, he went. No hesitation or trepidation in his movements.

My Garuda craned his head back, climbing up, up, up, threatening to toss me as we blasted past the crest of the temple—

I barrel rolled left, over and again, avoiding the snapping jaws of a car-sized cobra head patiently waiting for us atop the temple. Huge teeth snapped down, catching nothing but empty air, slapping together with a sound like a steel gate slamming shut. A second head whipped at me, attempting to broadside me, to swat me from the sky like a line drive. My Garuda banked hard, dropping low, the huge snake head whooshing over us as my mount’s feet touched down, carrying us into an awkward gallop.

A shadow flickered over me, like the shade from a cloud on a hot, sunny day, and then another of the heads careened toward me. My feathery friend lurched and swerved, leaping up and off the edge of the temple as something crashed behind us; stone cracked and rattled from the sheer force of the tremendous blow. Then, we were climbing again, gaining elevation, bringing us to eye level with the Serpent King.

“Ahhhhh,” the monstrous head closest to us said, the sheer volume of the sound damn near a weapon itself. “Azazel,” he hissed, drawing out the name, “so it is you who challenges me. Long have you coveted my power, and long have I awaited this day.”

“Nope, dickhead,” I shouted, summoning every ounce of defiance I could muster, “just me, Yancy Lazarus, blueshound and asskicker.” I threw one hand out, conjuring a spear of flame, which splashed against a purple eye the size of a car tire. The creature bellowed, head flailing, jerking left then right, swaying and swinging like an incoming wrecking ball ready to crush a building. My mount shook and tumbled, the colossal
whoosh
of air causing us to lose altitude—

Another serpentine head sailed our way, jaws snapping, yellow saliva dripping in great strings. The attack was powerful, but slow …

Well, not slow, but Ong was too damned big to match the zippy, race-car speed of the Garuda. We were quicker—dodging, hooking, bobbing, banking, then wheeling back around once more, diving past in a streak of light, the Garuda’s claws lashing out, raking across the reptilian snout, leaving a set of deep slashes in the scaly flesh. And all the while, I unleashed spear after spear of angry molten flame, colorful streams in yellow, orange, and blue lapping at Ong’s reptilian face.

Yet another set of jaws snapped at us, but we were already gone, moving again, on to another of the writhing heads.

More flame. More raking talons. A deadly song played on repeat.

After a few minutes of exhausting battle, we glided wide, out of Ong’s reach, trying to get a little breathing room. I surveyed the Snake King as we flew.

For all of our efforts, Ong seemed unperturbed—annoyed, maybe, but not hurt. Not really. Flame, as versatile and devastating as it was in most situations, didn’t seem to faze the Naga King. I sniffed, then spit into the air. Obviously, I needed to change up my game. Using the Nox flowing in me to augment my power, I hefted one hand and formed a watermelon-sized orb of electric-blue force; the weave a complex thing of air and water, built around a core of earthen power.

Ball lightning—a James Sullivan specialty.

No better ass-kicker in the game.

This particular construct didn’t play to my strong suit, but with the Nox I could manage it. With the Nox, I felt like I could manage just about anything. The ball wobbled in my hand for only a second before the perfect target revealed itself. One of Ong’s heads swerved toward me, head dropping low, mouth flying wide in a display of teeth and spiked-gullet. Not even something like Ong could swallow ball lightning without repercussions.

“Chew on this, shitbag,” I screamed, flinging my hand out—

Something slammed into me from above, and my throw went wide, the crackling construct soaring up, away, missing Ong completely, which was incredible since he was bigger than a friggin’ barn. My ride dropped, tumbling out of control, flipping head over heels, falling fast. My legs fell away from the Garuda’s neck, and I couldn’t help but stupidly wonder what in the hell had just happened. Not that it really mattered. Not now. Shit, if the Garuda landed on top of me, nothing would ever matter again.

Remarkably, I still had one hand tangled in the Garuda’s fur, and with a heave of effort I managed to hook my other arm around the creature’s wing joint. I willed the creature to turn. To flip. To do something other than fall from the sky like an asteroid.

The Garuda stirred beneath my hands, responding to my insistent will, his wings jerking, body wriggling. Its considerable efforts, useless.

After a long beat, the Garuda flipped. Rolled.

It righted itself an instant before we smashed into the sloping wall of the temple and course corrected a heartbeat before we played the part of bug on windshield. I clung awkwardly to its back, my legs and arms splayed out, as the Garuda strained and fought to catch a draft, pulling out of the fall and away from jagged stone.

I slugged my way forward as the Garuda finally managed to steady itself before laboriously climbing back toward Ong. It took me a handful of seconds to get reseated, but once that was done, I finally saw what’d hit us: a shaft of gleaming purple-blue ice jutted from the ribs of my mount. Not far from where my leg naturally rested.

With a frown, I stole a look up.

Ah shit.

A halo of Garuda now surrounded Ong’s many heads, circling around him like a huge tornado of feathers and flesh; he’d recalled his troops now that the real threat had reared its head. But the flock of undead minions weren’t the only new additions. The Savage Prophet, radiating purple light in waves—his eyes glowing, his skin frosty blue—sat astride one of the Garuda, his crook tucked under his arm like a knight’s lance as he blasted Ong with shafts of ice.

That no good buttweasel had stolen my idea, dammit. Then he’d sucker punched me. Again. Asshole.

With gritted teeth, I streaked toward him, angling my mount so we were directly below the Prophet, firmly in his blind spot. But the sneaky bastard spun away, launching himself into the cloud of squawking Garuda. Disappearing. Lost in the rustle of wings and the swarm of bodies. I couldn’t afford to leave that assclown at my six, knowing he’d impale me on a shaft of ice the second he had a clear shot, so I guided my mount into the raging currents of the undead flock.

I instantly regretted the decision.

We were immediately buffeted by wings, slammed by heavy forms, claws randomly slashing at us. Hard flying, that. I thrust out a hand and loosed a wall of flame, a tsunami of fire washing over the opposition, spreading from one Garuda to another, turning each of them into a falling star of burning meat. Maybe slinging around a metric shit-ton of flame wasn’t the wisest move, considering I was riding a highly flammable, flying death trap, but boy did it clear things up in a hurry.

Since the enemy Garuda couldn’t maneuver in the close quarters, this was almost the exact definition of shooting fish in a barrel—assuming those fish were undead, weighed in at a couple of tons, and had wings.

It didn’t take long before I broke through the first wall of feathered opposition, blasting clear into the dark sky beyond. The Prophet was maybe fifty feet away, ducking and weaving between a smattering of Garuda, launching pop-shots at Ong, then vanishing again, using Ong’s forces to camouflage his movements.

Smart strategy, I had to begrudgingly admit.

“Enough,” Ong roared. “I tire of this futile game. Feel the power of Buné the Chloros. Taste death.” Each of Ong’s many mouths opened wide, the jaws distending, straining, cracking, then filling with a terrible light—an orb of power, cancer-green and laced with dirty streaks of violet. The light expanded, swelling in size and intensity, until I couldn’t look without risking the loss of my good eye. Staring at those lights was like staring into the sun at noonday.

With a hollow
BOOM
, awful power erupted in a foul geyser.

Seven beams of raw, freezing force slashed through the ranks of the assembled Garuda, massacring ’em indiscriminately in an attempt to hit me or the Prophet. And it
was
a massacre. A messy one. Wherever that cold light touched, the Garuda came apart: flesh burning, smoldering, then rotting in a blink. That rot—black tinged with rancid green—spread from the point of contact, crawling and consuming as it moved until nothing remained untouched. Brutal.

Feathery bodies dropped, raining from the skies as Ong’s sickly light did its grim work. One of those beams flashed my way, and without a thought, I pushed my Garuda into another steep dive.

Not fast enough.

My mount swerved as the deadly construct washed over its hindquarters, throwing us off course. I stole a panicked look back, watching as black rot gnawed its way forward, eating as it went, murdering my ride an inch at a time. Crap. We were flying fast—crashing fast, at this point—and the desperate dive had brought us within ten feet of the stony temple roof. Quickly, I swung one leg over the beast’s neck, balancing precariously on my ass as the Garuda hurtled toward the side of temple, crash imminent.

Then, because I was screwed no matter how you sliced it, I jumped.

Just hurled my body forward, arms pinwheeling, legs flapping and kicking uselessly as I prayed for the best.

My feet slammed into unforgiving stone with a sharp
crack-snap
, knees buckling beneath me, a scream tearing its way from my throat. My left shin
folded
beneath me, not something a shin is supposed to do, and a shard of bone stabbed through my jeans, its edge ragged and streaked with red. The Garuda crash-landed six or seven feet away with a thunderous rumble, already dead, its body black and twisted with decay.

Not that I really cared.

Sure, in our few brief moments together, I’d grown a certain affinity for the Garuda, but I had other things to worry about. Like Ong. And the Prophet. Oh, and that piece of bone pointing at me like an accusatory finger. I fell onto my back and screamed again, tears streaking from my good eye as I shook and trembled from the pain cavorting up from my busted leg. On the plus side, the industrial-grade laser light show had ceased, and the nightmare flock of Garuda had thinned considerably. But it didn’t take me long to spot the Prophet.

That flying douche-waffle had somehow weathered the storm.

Which is when it dawned on me:

I’d lost. Really lost.
Epically
lost.

I couldn’t salvage this mess. No way. The Prophet was up there while I was down here, without a ride, completely exhausted, and sporting a busted leg to boot. I couldn’t walk. Sure as shit couldn’t fight. And without a Garuda to haul me around, I was about as useless as a trapdoor on a lifeboat.