by David McAfee
“Is her malady contagious?”
“We don’t know. But it’s possible. How would you look, mother, leading the army from your sick bed?”
Heanua was right. Boudica wanted to go see her daughter, but getting sick herself would only harm the campaign. It would have to wait until after the attack of Londinium. Once the city was destroyed, she would go see Lannosea and find out exactly what was going on. The girl had been acting strange lately, anyway.
“Very well,” she said. “You and I will lead the attack on Londinium. Lannie will rest. For now.”
Boudica turned back and walked to where her generals were gathered, no doubt going over a few last minute strategies. Cyric was there, as well, going on about the next city on their list. Always thinking ahead, that one. That’s why she liked him so much. That and the fact that he was obviously smitten with Lannosea.
She smiled. He would make a fine king someday.
***
Heanua watched her mother walk away, relieved for the time being that she wouldn’t have to come up with a bigger lie. What she’d told Boudica was partially true. Lannie was ill. Sort of. And she hadn’t told anyone. Of course, pregnancy wasn’t contagious, but she couldn’t think of another way to keep her mother from visiting the tent. At least she had bought a little time to think.
She climbed into her saddle and urged her mount forward under the guise of inspecting the troops. They didn’t require inspection, and indeed, many of them could scarcely be called soldiers. Her mother had assembled a vast horde of Iceni and Trinovante warriors, but compared to the disciplined ranks of the Romans, they were little more than a gathering of barbarians.
Heanua had seen the Roman Legion in action. Orderly rows and rank upon rank of organized men who knew their role and followed orders without question. It was a system that had seen Rome expand to the great empire it was today. Looking at her own people, she could only shake her head. Presently, two men fought over a wineskin even though they were to march in short order. A little farther on, a group of men snored loudly as their captain tried to wake them, the air around them smelled strongly of wine and mead. Not far away a man and woman lay naked on a mat of furs, their hands and mouths exploring each other’s bodies while a group of onlookers urged them on.
This was her army.
Heanua sighed. Her people were ragged and undisciplined, and the Romans were better armed and had the experience of generations of military learning. The Iceni had only one advantage, but it was a good one.
Strength of numbers.
Boudica had assembled a massive force of over a hundred thousand warriors, and more joined every day, attracted by the thought of plunder and conquest. The ground shook under her feet when her army marched, and the land behind them was bare and brown, the grass trampled dead by innumerable feet, hooves, and wagons. Among her people, it was the greatest such army ever gathered, and it would roll over Londinium like an ox over an anthill.
And Lannosea would not be part of it.
It felt strange to know she would ride into battle without her sister. Before the attack, Lannie had been a fierce warrior, besting women and men alike. But for the last five months she’d been timid and quiet, hardly daring to leave her tent. At least Heanua now understood why.
Pregnant. Those Roman legionaries had really done it for her sister. Her life was ruined, now. Cyric, who had doted on her ever since she was a child, would not want her once she birthed a Roman bastard, and she would lose the rulership of her people. That meant Heanua would be queen someday, a title she did not want. Let the Boudicas and Lannoseas of the world rule. Heanua had no head for it, and had never aspired to be queen. Heanua knew her sword and her mount. She relished the feel of the rippling muscles between her legs as her horse ran down an opponent, the scream as her sword cut into an enemy’s flesh, and the smells of blood and fire that accompanied battle.
That was Heranua’s world, not sitting in a cushioned chair issuing orders. But that would be her life unless she could think of a way to help Lannie. As she rode among the troops, she pondered her options. She thought of several plans, then discarded them immediately as unworkable or pointless. No matter what she might do, it didn’t change the fact that her sister was pregnant with the bastard child of a Roman legionary. By the time she reached the catapults, her face had grown flush with frustration.
She had to find a way to help Lannie. She had to.
17
The damp smell of mold and mildew flowed up from the stone stairway when Ramah pushed open the worn, peeling door that led to the basement. He expected to find his Lost One minding Theron and Taras, who should be ready for questioning after spending the day locked away. Instead he found Taras lying unconscious or dead on the floor and Theron missing. The stout lock on the side of the wooden stocks was broken, and hung by the warped loop of metal, but he could see nothing out of place with the shackles on the wall. The bolts were still in place, and the rings hung limply from chains embedded into the stone. How had Taras escaped them?
His Lost One was nowhere to be seen.
He stood in the doorway and examined the rest of the room, wanting to make sure there would be no surprises when he went in. More than one Bachiyr had been trapped by not paying attention to his surroundings. Ramah should know, he was an expert at catching his victims unaware, and so was Theron. But the room seemed clear. No ominous shadows or dusty tarps, and the wind outside told him there was no Psalm of Silence on the room. The walls were bare but for a row of metal rods, each about four feet long and an inch thick. Ramah didn’t know their intended use, but they were good for beating a prisoner across the back, as he’d learned the previous night. Everything was as he’d left it. The only thing out of place was the Bachiyr on the floor.
Ramah stepped through the doorway, his anger growing with each step. He never should have left the Lost One alone with his charges. When he found the thing, he was going to destroy it for letting one of the prisoners escape. Especially Theron. Ramah could have coped with the escape of Taras, but not Theron. The former Lead Enforcer was the one he really wanted. The Roman was just an added bonus.
As he approached, he reminded himself that the yellow-haired former legionary had been an accomplished assassin in life, and had somehow managed to survive as an unauthorized Bachiyr for almost thirty years, despite being hunted by every agent the Council of Thirteen could muster. It would be a mistake to assume everything in the room was as it seemed. Taras could be feigning unconsciousness, waiting for Ramah to get close enough to strike. Not that it would matter. Ramah would crush him easily, and both of them knew it.
He kicked Taras in the side of his chest, noting the satisfying crack as one of the prone vampire’s ribs broke. Taras groaned and made a weak effort to curl into a fetal position, but apparently the effort was too much for him, and he soon lay still again.
What the hell happened here? Had Taras escaped his bonds and then tried to assist Theron? Ramah couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Theron would have attacked Taras as soon as he was free. Taras would have to be very stupid to believe otherwise.
But Taras isn’t stupid, Ramah thought. Weak, but not stupid. So what did happen?
Ramah knelt down and grabbed Taras by the shoulder, rolling him over on his back. Taras’s eyes were closed and his fangs were retracted. He groaned again as Ramah moved him, and his eyes opened a crack. After a moment, the Roman’s eyes widened. Recognition dawned on Taras’s face, and he tried to squirm away, but Ramah put his hands to the other man’s shoulders and pinned him to the floor.
“You remember me,” Ramah said, pleased.
Taras didn’t respond, but Ramah could see the man’s mind working behind his eyes, probably looking for an escape.
“Don’t bother,” Ramah said. “In your condition, you would not get far, and there is no city full of Jews to cover your escape this time.”
Taras’s face fell. He must know, just as Ramah did, that he had no hope of escaping. Last
time he’d been lucky. Ramah had been occupied fighting off a large group of humans in Jerusalem, which allowed Taras time to get away.
Not this time.
“Where is Theron?” Ramah asked.
“I don’t know,” Taras replied, his voice faint.
“You freed him?”
“Never,” Taras spat. “I freed myself. After I escaped I went to kill him and someone attacked me from behind.”
“The Lost One?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was the room cold?” Ramah asked.
“It is cold everywhere I go,” Taras growled, his voice gaining strength. “I haven’t been warm since your lackey-”
Ramah cracked the other’s head on the stone floor, eliciting a yelp of pain. “Don’t press your luck, Roman. The moment you cease to be useful I will kill you.”
“No,” Taras blurted. “The room wasn’t cold.”
“That’s better.” Ramah paused. It couldn’t have been the Lost One, then. Could it have been Lannis who attacked Taras from behind? But why? If she had set all this in motion, turning the fresh vampires against Ramah and making a deal with Taras, why would she attack him once Theron was captured? Did she want to be the one to bring him in? If so, why? Lannis had never shown any interest in hunting down fugitives before. She enjoyed punishing them when Ramah or an Enforcer brought them in, but actually hunting for them was another matter. She preferred to sit, safe and snug, in her plush chambers while others did all the work.
Something wasn’t right.
“You mentioned a deal with Lannis,” Ramah said. “Tell me what she offered you.”
To his surprise, Taras shook his head and barked a weak, wet laugh. “The woman said I would be free if I helped her capture Theron. She told me I could stop running and live in peace.”
“And you believed her,” Ramah replied, a smile on the corner of his lips.
Taras nodded. “I did.”
“Lannis is not known for keeping her word.”
“Theron said the same thing. He also called me a fool.”
“He was right,” Ramah said. “You were a fool.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“Of course not,” Ramah said. “Lannis cannot make deals for the Council. Only Headcouncil Herris can grant immunity.”
“No,” Taras said. “It doesn’t matter because it wasn’t Lannis who made the offer. It was someone else.”
“How do you know?” Ramah had figured as much, but he wanted confirmation.
“Theron saw her, too. He said the woman’s name was Baella.”
Ramah stopped, unsure he’d heard correctly. “Did you say Baella?”
“I did,” Taras said.
If Ramah’s lungs still worked, his breath would have caught in his throat. Baella! Finally! Here was the opportunity to capture the single most wanted renegade in the history of his race, and she had all but fallen into his lap. He had no idea what she would want with Theron, but he didn’t intend to let her have him.
“How long ago did they leave?” Ramah asked.
“I don’t know,” Taras replied. “I was unconscious.”
Ramah grabbed one of the sharp metal rods from the wall and drove it through Taras’s chest and into the stone underneath, pinning the renegade to the floor. While Taras screamed and writhed, Ramah noted that he’d missed the heart, but not by much. Damn. He turned his back on Taras and walked up the stairs, nearly tripping on the top step in his haste to catch up to Baella and Theron.
“Don’t worry,” he called over his shoulder, “I’ll finish the job when I get back.”
18
Theron needed blood. Badly. He stumbled along behind Baella, trying to keep up, and found his face in the dirt far too often for his liking.
“Ramah will be coming for us,” Baella hissed. “Can’t you go any faster?”
“Need…blood…” Theron said. “My insides are turning to dust.”
Baella looked him up and down. “Blood? Why didn’t you say so?” She turned away from him and looked up the street. After a moment, she started walking.
“Stay here,” she said. Theron, still weak, nodded. It wasn’t like he had much choice, anyway. He sat with his back to a building, marveling at this strange new turn.
Baella. Here. In Londinium.
That certainly explained what happened to the Lost One. In the entire history of his race, only one Bachiyr had been able to destroy a Lost One without the aid of the Council. Baella. No one knew how she did it, or why, but she seemed to kill every Lost One she ran across, leaving nothing but a pile of ash in their place. She was rumored to have many other abilities not seen in other Bachiyr. The list of her supposed powers ran the gamut from being able to fly to turning people to stone. Ridiculous, of course. But she’d done something to him earlier that left him in a very weakened state-a state magnified by a night of Ramah’s attention-and damned if he could figure out what it was or how she did it.
Very few had ever even seen Baella. Theron and Ephraim had tracked her down in the Library of Alexandria many years before, back when they both worked as Enforcers for The Council. That night, Theron had caught his first glimpse of the penultimate renegade vampire. Theron had set fire to the Library while Ephraim and Baella battled inside, but she still managed to escape. Ephraim had emerged from the burning wreckage with only minor injuries, very upset with Theron for nearly killing him. He’d never been the same afterward, and eventually had betrayed his people for a human rabbi in Jerusalem.
Theron winced. The memory of his failure in Judea still stung.
He put it out of his mind and focused on his current situation, which was dire enough to require his full attention. He was a prisoner of the most hunted vampire of all. True, she’d freed him from the stocks, and she could have killed him easily if she’d wanted, which meant she needed him alive for something. But that didn’t mean much. She might simply be toying with him, ready to kill him as soon as she got bored. Weak as he was, he would not be able to do much to stop her.
Additionally, somewhere behind him Ramah would soon discover his escape. Baella had left Taras alive in the hope that he would keep Ramah busy for a while. If it worked, they might have a chance to get out of the city alive. But if the Roman told Ramah about Baella, no doubt the Councilor would come running, pausing only long enough to kill Taras before speeding out the door in pursuit.
Thinking of Taras brought the image of his unnaturally thin wrists and hands to Theron’s mind. How had he managed to alter them like that? That would be a useful thing to know. If Theron escaped Londinium alive, he vowed to learn that trick.
Movement up the street caught his eye. Baella. She had found a woman and was leading her back to him. The woman shuffled along behind, her arms at her sides and her expression blank. As they approached, Theron noted her attire. Bright colors, designed to attract the eye. The sparse outfit revealed a great deal more flesh than was generally considered appropriate. Probably a prostitute. Along with beggars, they were usually the easiest prey to find in the city, and most of the time no one missed them. This one had apparently decided the risk to the city was not worth her loss of income, although there was little enough in the way of potential customers left in the deserted city.
“Here,” Baella said when she reached him. “Feed quickly. We don’t have much time.”
Theron grabbed the woman’s arm and pulled her close. She came to him with no resistance, her eyes still blank and thoughtless.
“What did you do to her?” he asked.
“Does it matter?”
No, Theron thought. It doesn’t. He tilted her head back, exposing her throat. Her blood pulsed through the artery in her neck, a tantalizing fraction of an inch beneath the surface. He could almost smell it underneath her sweat and the scent of sex, which clung to her like perfume. Definitely a prostitute.
Theron’s fangs extended, and he sank them into the woman’s neck. At that moment she regained her senses. Her sudd
en fear sprang through her blood like fire, and he gripped her tighter, losing himself in the sweet taste of her terror. She tried to scream as she struggled to free herself, but all she could manage was a hoarse croak, which soon turned into a whimpered plea for mercy.
Theron had never been known for mercy.
He twisted his neck, tearing the skin of the woman’s throat. As her body tensed with pain, the thrill of death coursed through him, igniting his nerves and sending his synapses into rapid motion. The blood flowed into his mouth and he sucked it down greedily, draining the woman dry as her struggles became weaker and weaker. Soon she stopped moving altogether, but still he drank. He did not stop until she was nothing more than a dry husk.
He threw the body into the street, instinctively looking around for a good place to hide it. When he saw Baella staring at him, he realized what he was doing. Protecting the secrecy of his race was the Council’s mission, not his. Still, he preferred to hide his kills from human detection whenever possible. If for no other reason than not to leave an obvious trail for the Council to follow.
“Still living by their rules, are you?” Baella asked.
Theron shrugged. “Old habits can be hard to break.”
The line, recited by old men for as long as Theron could recall, brought back a memory that stopped him cold.
Malachi stepped in, ducking his head and twisting a bit to the side in order to maneuver his broad shoulders through the doorway. He wore his shoulder-length brown hair tied back with a leather thong, leaving his craggy, olive-skinned face exposed from forehead to chin, and he didn’t look pleased. He fixed his stern features squarely on the much smaller Ephraim. “Thank ‘The Father,’ Ephraim? Why would you offer thanks to a demon? Have you learned nothing these last few weeks?”
“My apologies, my friend. Old habits can be difficult to break.”
“Indeed, they can,” Malachi said. “That you are trying at all says much about your progress.”