Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  “What do you think it is?”

  Ramah said nothing, but motioned for Theron to keep walking.

  Theron resumed his trek through the city. Soon they would be at the Gatehouse and it would be all over. Ramah would tell the Council about the new believers in Israel, and Theron would be a Lost One.

  Theron clenched his fist at his side. A Lost One! How had he sunk so low? In less than a week he’d gone from the Council of Thirteen’s most trusted servant to the lowest caste of Bachiyr society. It was all that damn Nazarene’s fault. Everything was going fine until Jesus stuck his nose where it didn’t belong. Now Ephraim was dead, and Theron would soon wish he were.

  At least Jesus had suffered. By all accounts, the Romans had made his death particularly brutal. Crucifixions always were. Theron could take some comfort in that knowledge. Jesus was dead and would not trouble his people again.

  Or was he?

  He recalled Ramah’s statement that several people claimed to have seen Jesus up and walking about. Ridiculous, of course. No one rose from the dead without the aid of the Bachiyr. Obviously it was a ploy by Jesus's remaining followers to create doubt among the Sanhedrin, and so far it seemed to be working quite well. According to Ramah, Caiaphas had sent scores of temple guards into the outlying countryside looking for Jesus, but they had found no trace of him. Caiaphas even petitioned Pilate to donate men to the search, but Pilate refused, saying he’d done his part and would have nothing else to do with the Nazarene.

  In spite of his situation, Theron smiled at the thought. He tried to picture Caiaphas’ face when Pilate told him no. The man probably turned purple with rage.

  He rounded the last corner before the Gatehouse and it came into view. Theron stopped walking so suddenly that Ramah bumped into him.

  “What the hell?” Ramah said. Then he, too, stopped in the middle of the street.

  Both vampires stood and watched as dozens of men scrambled around the Gatehouse, each carrying buckets of water. Now Theron understood the nature of the orange glow over the area of the Damascus Gate. He watched as flames twenty paces high engulfed the structure, devouring it like a pack of hungry jackals.

  “By the Father,” Ramah said, his eyes reflected the orange glow of the flames.

  “What do we do now?” Theron asked.

  Ramah studied the burning house. “We will have to leave the city and travel to the nearest Gatehouse.”

  “But that’s in Carthage.”

  “I know. We will have to secure a horse and cart.”

  “And a driver.”

  Ramah waved his hand, dismissing Theron’s concern. “We will wait here a while. I don’t want to be anywhere near the Gatehouse when the fire hits the portal.”

  Theron agreed, and the two skirted the area by the Gatehouse and looked for a place to wait out the blaze. Theron saw an alley across from the house, and pointed it out to Ramah. “We can wait there.” Ramah nodded his agreement.

  The two walked to the alley, but before they got within twenty steps of it, a man stepped out of the shadows and started walking toward them. Theron saw him and stopped, his jaw fell open and he couldn’t help but stare. It couldn’t be. By the Father, it couldn’t be.

  “You!” Taras screamed, and ran at Theron.

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Theron had just enough time to get his hands up before Taras crashed into him and they both fell over into the street, raising a cloud of dust in the dry air. The two rolled around on the ground in a flurry of fists and feet. Taras punched and kicked and bit like an angry badger, and Theron had all he could handle to keep the legionary’s hands away from his vital parts.

  “I killed you,” he said, grabbing Taras's wrist and holding his arm back. “I watched you die.”

  Taras growled something unintelligible and jerked his wrist from Theron’s hand. Damn, the man was strong. Much stronger than he’d been the first time they fought. He was almost as strong as… as a Bachiyr.

  “Oh, no,” Theron said aloud.

  He remembered the legionary lying on his back in the street, his face covered in blood. At the time, Theron never even imagined some of the blood might be his own, or that any of it would have found its way into Taras's mouth. But looking back, it seemed not only possible, but even probable given the amount of blood he’d lost when Taras stabbed him. He’d been so distracted with learning the truth of Jesus's fate, he didn’t clean up his mess, and the result of his carelessness now stood in front of him, attacking him with abandon.

  He had created another vampire, without the permission of the Council.

  “Oh, no,” he repeated. “Oh, damn it all to Hell.”

  “That’s right,” Taras said, launching a fist at Theron’s face. “You left me alive. But what have you done to me?”

  Theron blocked the punch with his forearm, but could only curse and groan in response. If he was in trouble before, now he was a dead man. Until he saw Taras, Theron held out hope that maybe, just maybe, he could talk his way out of being turned into a Lost One, especially since Taras was supposedly dead, a loose end Theron thought he’d tied up. But now he’d be lucky if the Council let him live long enough to be turned into a Lost One. Once Ramah figured out the truth about Taras, he would probably kill Theron on the spot. All because he’d been careless and overconfident.

  “Oh, no,” he said again. It was all he could say.

  Taras, his eyes blazing, continued to punch and kick at Theron, drawing a crowd. Theron blocked as best he could from his prone position, but he couldn’t concentrate on the fight at hand, worried as he was about his tenuous future. Taras scored painful hits more often than not, and blood poured from several cuts on Theron’s arms and face. Suddenly the legionary-turned-vampire flew away, his eyes and mouth wide with surprise. Theron looked up to see Ramah standing over him, a confused expression on his deeply tanned face.

  Ramah looked from Theron to Taras, who lay in the street a few paces away, then back to Theron. “What is this?” He asked, nodding toward Taras. By this time, a crowd of people had gathered around the three of them. Some glowed, while others didn’t.

  “Ramah,” Theron began, hoping to find some way to talk himself free of this mess. “It was an accident. I—”

  But he never finished the sentence. Glowing or otherwise, the people in the crowd all seemed to have something to say.

  “Look at that one!” One said.

  “His teeth! Look at his teeth!”

  “What are they?”

  “Monsters?”

  “Demons?”

  “Don’t get too close.”

  Then, in the most damning moment of Theron’s life, one of the gathered Jews uttered a single word. One so damning that it finished his career as an Enforcer once and for all. “Bachiyr!”

  The crowd fell silent for a pair of heartbeats as they digested the word, then they erupted in a cacophony of shouts and screams, and many of them ran. A few brave souls grabbed torches and swords, but even these failed to advance.

  Sudden understanding lit Ramah’s face, and the orange glow of the reflected firelight lent his eyes a smoldering air. His brows drew down, and his lips parted, revealing his canines. Theron knew, then, that he was a dead man. Ramah would carry out his execution right there in the street.

  Theron scrambled backward, looking for an escape, knowing he would not find one. Ramah advanced on him, the Councilor’s claws extended from his fingertips as he scowled his way forward. Theron’s back touched something solid and immobile. Wood. He’d backed himself up against a wall. He could go no further. Ramah closed the distance in seconds, his hand raised for a killing strike. No words now. None were needed. Both men knew what the next few moments would bring: death. Theron braced himself for the blow that would finish him.

  * * *

  Taras rolled to a stop and shot to his feet amidst a small cloud of dust. He stared at the two creatures in front of him. The one called Ramah looked confused, while Theron - So that’s his name!
Not Ephraim, but Theron - backed away, muttering something about an accident. Then someone in the crowd shouted “Bachiyr!”

  At the sound of the strange word, Ramah’s face twisted in anger, and Taras saw the fangs glinting yellow in the firelight. Just like the fangs in Theron’s mouth. By the Gods, he thought. There are two of those things? Probably working together.

  Taras stared at the two Bachiyr, his rage mounting. This was their fault. And he intended to make them pay.

  * * *

  Just before Ramah swung, a wild yell erupted to Theron’s right, and suddenly Ramah was bowled over by a crazed, writhing mass of yellow hair, deeply tanned muscles, and the shredded remains of a legionary’s red cloak. The two tumbled several paces away from Theron, Taras screaming incoherently as he and Ramah rolled on the cobbles. Theron, dazed, rose on unsteady legs. He leaned against the wall behind him for support and watched the scene unfold.

  Taras flailed at Ramah with both hands. Somehow, Theron noted, the legionary managed to grow claws, a skill that usually took time to learn, and he poked and slashed at Ramah over and over. Sometimes he scored a hit, but most of his attacks met with a solid block by Ramah, whose face twisted as he became more and more angry.

  Theron knew an opportunity when he saw one. He didn’t waste a moment as he turned away from the brawling vampires and sped toward the Damascus Gate, knocking aside any human who stood in his way, glowing or otherwise. He did receive a few minor burns from the humans whose faith shown on them like torchlight, but it was nothing compared to the one he got from Jesus. The difference between the two was like the difference between a small ember and a raging bonfire. It didn’t even slow him down.

  He ran through the Damascus Gate and into the Judean countryside, not bothering to look behind him. His legs blurred as he dashed down the main road, startling several travelers, and headed for the Gardens of Gethsemane. If he could make it to the Gardens, he could escape. Ramah would certainly hunt for him when he finished with Taras, but Theron knew many places in the local area where he could hide, and he was confident he could avoid the Councilor’s eyes at least until the sun rose. He refused to think about what he would do after that until he was sure he’d gotten away. Escape first, then make a plan, he told himself.

  He reached the Gardens of Gethsemane and turned to look behind him. The street was empty as far back as he could see. Theron gave a sigh of relief and sped away into the night.

  * * *

  Taras rolled in the street with the one called Ramah for several minutes, punching and clawing with abandon. It soon became clear to him that Ramah was far, far stronger. Taras, having the element of surprise, was able to knock his opponent from his feet and had thus far managed to prevent him from getting his guard up, but he knew it would not last. Sooner or later Ramah would have him.

  After a short while Taras began to tire. His strikes slowed and his balance wavered, and Ramah seized an opening and reached up with both hands to grab the legionary’s head. Taras, no novice to battle, released the offensive and rolled with Ramah’s hands, lest his head be torn from his shoulders. He rolled away into the cobbled street and jumped to his feet. But the damage was done; his advantage lost. Ramah, much faster than Taras's eyes could follow, closed the distance between the two and jabbed his claws into Taras's belly.

  He screamed as his insides lit up with fresh pain. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like after devouring so many people. He squirmed and grabbed Ramah’s wrist, trying to pull the claws from his gut, but Ramah's arms felt like steel. Taras's fingers, slick with his own blood, slid up Ramah’s forearm, unable to get a solid grip.

  Then a new pain hit his back. Intense, searing heat burned its way up his spine and to the base of his neck. Taras screamed anew, releasing Ramah’s forearm and slapping at the pain that crawled up his back. Ramah likewise screamed, and suddenly the claws were ripped from Taras's belly, spraying blood in a wide arc on the dusty street. He watched as Ramah reached behind him in a frantic attempt to pat out a fire that had engulfed his clothing. All around them, a group of glowing Jews held torches in the air.

  Taras's clothes likewise burned. The spots of pitch on his back didn’t help, and flames licked up the side of his body. He dropped to the ground and rolled in the street, a holdover from his military training. The pain didn’t lessen, but the fire on his back died. Gods, that hurt! He rolled in the dirt until he was sure he’d extinguished the flames and then he lay there, wincing and writhing in pain. In the corner of his eye he saw Ramah drop to the street and roll, as well. Soon that flame would be out, too. Would Ramah renew his attack on Taras? Would the gathered Jews set him on fire again?

  Not tonight, he determined. Taras rose to his feet amidst shouts and curses hurled at him by the crowd. He stumbled, but managed to stay upright long enough to drive his claws into the throat of the nearest Jew. The man gurgled as his life spilled out of his throat, and Taras's knees nearly buckled at the smell of fresh blood. But despite his hunger, he did not have time to feed. He tossed the dying man aside and ran from the city, looking for a place to hide.

  * * *

  Ramah rolled on the ground, extinguishing the flames but not his rage. He stood up as a pair of humans, emboldened by the cowardice of Taras and Theron, approached with their torches held at eye level. A ring of humans surrounded him, at least thirty of the vermin. Over half of them glowed with their newfound faith, and all but a few carried flaming brands.

  Ramah’s temper flared brighter than the torches. Theron was long gone, and although Taras would not get far, Ramah would have to battle his way through the humans before he could pursue, and that would take time. In a rare moment of indecision, he stood in place, trying to decide which of the rogue vampires to chase. The outlaw Theron, or the accidental and unsanctioned Taras. Both were equally dangerous in their own way.

  The people at the gate made his decision for him. They closed ranks until they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, surrounding him in a thick ring of humanity. Ramah smiled and licked a stray drop of blood from his upper lip. They didn’t realize it, but the humans had just given him a welcome diversion and a free vent to his rising ire.

  He charged the group with his claws raised and ripped a bloody path into their ranks, spraying gore and viscera into the night air. The screams of the dying men reminded him of other fights, other nights like this one, centuries before. Ramah was no stranger to slaughter. He tore the throat from one man, the head from another, and spun to stick his claws through the chest of a third. Undaunted, they pounced on him en masse, but Ramah bit and cut and shredded his way through the wall of flesh and bone and tore his way through to the other side, drenched from hair to boots in the blood of his enemies. He still had time to run after Taras or Theron, but Ramah’s bloodlust was up, and instead of chasing after one of the escaping vampires he turned around and dove back into the fray, cutting his enemies to ribbons as he went.

  Of the thirty or so humans gathered at the gate that night, not a single one escaped. Ramah butchered every last one. Before long, reinforcements started to arrive, including several units of armored legionaries traveling in catch-and-kill formations. The alarm had gone out through the entire city of the fire and fighting near the gate, and it seemed the entire population of Jerusalem descended upon him. Knowing he could not fight off so many people, Ramah turned his back to the approaching force and sprinted through the Damascus Gate.

  He’d lost Theron and Taras both, but he wasn’t worried. Ramah the Blood Letter, Second of the Council of Thirteen and one of the original thirteen vampires, knew he had an eternity in which to hunt them down.

  I will find you, he thought. Both of you. If it takes a hundred years or a thousand, you will both face the Council’s wrath.

  With that thought, Ramah turned north, headed for Carthage.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Taras woke at dusk. His eyes, sharp though they were, took a moment to adjust to the darkness of the tomb. He’d been able to move the bou
lder aside with ease; the tricky part was putting it back from the inside. Then just before he laid his head down for the day, he’d prayed to every one of his gods, begging them not to let Ramah find him.

  Apparently, Ramah hadn’t. Taras wasn’t surprised; he doubted anyone would look for him here. His big concern was that someone would come to the spot and notice the site had been disturbed, but even that worry was remote, given the circumstances.

  Taras glanced sideways at the shrouded corpse that lay against the far wall of the tomb. He’d been unable to look at it last night, but now, with the moon rising and lending him strength, he found he could not keep his eyes away from it.

  From her, not it, he amended. Even dead, she was still his Mary.

  He shuffled over to her side and sat down, toying with the idea of ripping the shroud open so he could see her face. He dismissed the thought immediately. He’d already seen her wounds once; he had no desire to see them again.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. He looked from her to the other corpse sharing the small space with him. Abraham, pale and waxen, stared up at the ceiling of the cavern, his unblinking eyes clouded over in death. Taras had hidden the body here just before leaving for Jerusalem last night. The gaping hole in Abraham’s throat looked eerily similar to Mary’s. He looked back to Mary, hidden underneath the soft cotton wrappings.

  “The Bachiyr,” he said. “That’s what they call themselves.” Taras realized with a start he’d almost slipped and said we instead of they. But so what if he did? What did it matter anymore? He was one of them, now, as well. He had only to look at Abraham's mutilated throat to prove it.

  “Oh, gods, what did you do to me, Theron?” He asked aloud, recalling the name Ramah had used the night before. He dropped his hands to his face as he realized how far he’d fallen. By rights, he and Mary should be well on their way to Carthage by now, holding hands and making plans for their future family while a boat waited for them in the harbor. Instead, Taras sat in his dead love’s tomb, with only her corpse and that of her murdered father for company. No tears, they still would not come, and without their cleansing power he found it impossible to release his grief. Thus he sat in the darkness of the tomb in silence, listening to the thoughts in his own mind. He almost wished he’d stayed behind in Jerusalem and let Ramah finish him.