A dark goddess. An ancient cult. And a dangerous zealot...
On the outskirts of the recently developed and prosperous city of Hyderabad, India, a new and luxurious housing complex has arisen. But several residents have been found brutally murdered. Some believe the killer is a rogue tiger. Others whisper that it is the work of the servants of Kali, the Hindu goddess of death.
Her feet are barely on Indian soil when archaeologist Annja Creed finds herself swept up in Hyderabad’s modern prosperity. But something about the recent spate of killings seems unusual and Annja begins to dig deep for answers. Instead, she finds herself taken prisoner and held in a maze of ancient caves. She’s being held captive by a cult of thieves who are under the thrall of a charismatic leader.
In only a few short hours, Annja is to be sacrificed—unless she can channel the vengeance of the goddess Kali herself....
There was a sudden explosion of light
The first thing Annja saw after her eyes adjusted was a blue figure emblazoned in front of her. A statue. Annja caught herself as she recognized who it was.
Kali.
The goddess of death.
The statue had four arms, each wielding a different weapon. And the red eyes were supposed to suggest a certain level of intoxication, a bloodlust resulting from one of Kali’s many battles.
Kali was a ferocious deity.
What the hell had Annja stumbled onto here?
The torches that had sprung to life glowed hot, casting long shadows across the chamber, but also giving enough illumination for Annja to finally see the men who held them captive. Her first impression was that there weren’t nearly as many of them as she’d thought there’d been in the darkness. Only a dozen or so. All chanting.
And they looked as ferocious as their goddess Kali. Slowly, each man reached up and undid the length of black cloth that covered their faces. These scarves, knotted at each end, were handled with a degree of reverence Annja found amazing. The captors tucked them into their belts, the two knotted ends dangling over, as if ready to be drawn quickly. Perhaps they were weapons.
Thuggee. The thought struck her hard. Except…
Except that cult was supposed to have been wiped out ages ago.
Fury’s Goddess
Alex Archer
The Legend
...The English commander took Joan’s sword and raised it high.
The broadsword, plain and unadorned, gleamed in the firelight. He put the tip against the ground and his foot at the center of the blade. The broadsword shattered, fragments falling into the mud. The crowd surged forward, peasant and soldier, and snatched the shards from the trampled mud. The commander tossed the hilt deep into the crowd.
Smoke almost obscured Joan, but she continued praying till the end, until finally the flames climbed her body and she sagged against the restraints.
Joan of Arc died that fateful day in France, but her legend and sword are reborn....
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Jon Merz for his contribution to this work.
Contents