Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  Right away he felt a surge of strength. Bachiyr blood was much richer than human blood, but the Council frowned upon the Father’s children feeding on each other. Theron didn’t care, he needed blood, and she had it. Damn the Council and their rules. They were hunting him already, anyway. This would just give them something else to be angry about, provided they bothered themselves with it at all, which he doubted. He drank from her until she stopped moving, which didn’t take long.

  He cast her body aside and listened as the sound of fighting outside grew more intense. Men screamed in pain and fear, while others shouted orders. An occasional deep grunt and the sound of bodies smashing into buildings punctuated the general din. He walked over to the hole in the wall and peered out to see how the giant was doing against the Athens city guard.

  At least a dozen men lay broken and bleeding as the giant Bachiyr whirled and danced in the street. For such a large man he moved deceptively fast, and the city guard found their numbers dwindling until a second squad joined the first. The captain of the new squad, a wizened old soldier about half the size of the giant, ordered his men to throw a bucket of pitch on the frenzied devil in their midst.

  Once the giant was covered in black, sticky tar, the captain threw a torch at him. The resulting fire flared high enough to make Theron back away from the hole on the second floor. He had seen enough, anyway. The sound of the big Bachiyr’s scream rattled the wall and confirmed Theron’s suspicions. The giant would not survive the night.

  He looked around for a way out of the building but saw only the wooden door the giant had come through. He checked it anyway, hoping for a rear exit. Instead he found only the remaining chambers of the woman’s sanctuary, which confirmed what he’d already suspected. To escape, he would have to fight his way past the city guard.

  He checked the scene outside and saw that, for the moment, most of them were distracted by the flaming giant. The huge Bachiyr kept the soldiers at bay with his wild flailing and deep bellow, but several of the men had drawn crossbows and were getting into position. Ordinarily, such puny weapons would not have much effect on one so big, but with the flames eating at his flesh the giant apparently thought better of continuing the fight and instead sprinted down the street, headed for the ocean. Two dozen guardsmen gave chase, their white cloaks streaming behind them as they fired bolt after bolt into the giant’s back.

  Theron watched them go, amused by his good fortune. Not a single one of the guardsmen had remained behind to investigate the building. Now was his chance. He vaulted through the hole in the wall and fell to the street below. It wasn’t a long drop, but he bent his knees and rolled into his landing anyway, just to be safe. The last thing he needed to do right now was break his leg. He could heal it, of course, but that would take time, and the city guard could return at any moment. Better to be far away by the time they did.

  He ran down the street, heading away from the ocean and deeper into the city. He had no idea where he was going. The city had changed so much since he’d lived here that the only familiar landmark was Acropolis. Fortunately it was visible above the rooftops, which allowed him to keep his bearings. While he ran, he thought about what the woman had said. The Council had offered a position within the Halls to anyone who could capture him.

  A high prize, indeed. Only the elite of his race were permitted to live in the Halls of the Bachiyr. Adonia had nearly turned green with jealousy when Ephraim offered Theron a place within its walls. She had tried unsuccessfully for centuries to gain the notice of the Council, and she was far older than Theron. Such an offer would tempt every vampire from Rome to the far eastern cities and beyond. Not only would he not be safe in Athens, he realized, he would not be safe anywhere in the world. Bachiyr from every corner would come looking for him, all with visions of glory running through their minds. The Council had left him with no place to hide.

  His stay in Athens would have to be very short. From this point on, he would have to keep moving in order to stay ahead of his pursuers. Most of them would be minor Bachiyr with dreams of grandeur, who would have no idea of the kind of power he possessed. They would be little more than annoyances as long as they didn’t band together.

  But there were other powerful Bachiyr in the world, and not all of them had already secured a place in the Halls. Theron could think of a dozen, at least, that he would prefer to avoid if at all possible. Adonia, for example. By all reports, she still lived in Athens, and if the woman and her giant friend—Theron realized then that he’d never gotten their names—knew he was in the city then Adonia surely did, as well. Which meant she was probably prowling the streets even now, looking for him.

  The thought caused him to slow his pace, no sense in drawing attention to himself. Even at this late hour people walked the streets of Athens, but few of them ran. Better to try and blend in as much as possible, at least until he could find a safe place to spend the day.

  Of course, blending in was difficult to do with blood all over his clothes. He would need to replace them, and soon. He scanned the street, looking for a suitable candidate. After locating several men who had a height and build similar to his own, he settled on a drunkard weaving his way through the streets in the direction of Acropolis. Judging by his shabby clothes, the man was not on his way home. Only the wealthy lived in the shadow of the great hill. He was probably headed for the taverns. It didn’t matter. Wherever the man was going, he would not get there.

  Theron would see to that.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, Theron walked through the city in his new clothes. He had not spilled a single drop of his victim’s blood on them and he blended in perfectly with the handful of people already in the street. The drunkard even had a few coins on him, which Theron took, realizing too late that he’d left two gold shekels behind in the woman’s home. He hated to lose that much money, but he wasn’t going to go back for it. By now the place would be crawling with the city guard, and probably a handful of Bachiyr, as well.

  A group of guardsmen tromped by in orderly rows, the moonlight glinting off their steel helmets and the tips of their spears. Theron watched them go. Their tight ranks reminded him a bit of the Roman Legionaries who patrolled the streets of Jerusalem, though the Romans kept tighter formations and wore red cloaks instead of white. The Athenians were no less formidable, however, and he kept a safe distance. He heard a few snippets of hushed conversation as they passed by.

  “...eight feet tall.”

  “I heard it was ten.”

  “...set the damned thing on fire.”

  ...still fought...”

  “...jumped into the ocean...”

  So, the giant had made it to the water, after all. Theron smiled. The big fellow was even tougher than he thought. He would be in bad shape when he surfaced, however. The burns he suffered would take time to heal, and even then it would be impossible for a being that size to hide for long now that the city guard was looking for him. Theron would not be the only one leaving Athens as soon as possible. If the giant had any sense, he would leave tonight.

  For that matter, Theron should leave tonight, as well. He was rested, healed, and had plenty of blood. There was no reason to spend another day in the city. He had planned to stop by his tomb—if it still existed—and see how it had fared over the centuries, but it would make more sense to leave the city while there was still enough night to find a secure place to spend the day.

  He turned north, using Acropolis as a guide. He would travel inland, away from the coast and the highly populated cities that lay by the water. The bigger cities were bound to have plenty of Bachiyr. If he could reach the countryside, he would have a better chance of outdistancing any who were hunting for him. As a bonus, his route through the city would take him close to his tomb. Maybe he would have time to visit, after all.

  ***

  The building, though showing signs of age and wear, stood tall and straight on the spot where his father buried him. It was a massive structure, severa
l stories tall and at least a hundred paces wide. Probably the home of some wealthy merchant. He should have known his tomb would be gone. There was no one left in the city to wonder where he had gone. His father had probably died not long after Theron joined the Bachiyr, leaving no one left alive to mourn him.

  Theron stared at the walls, trying to remember what his place of rest had looked like. Back then, it was little more than a hole in the stone, covered by a slab of rock. The surrounding grounds had been bare save for a handful of other tombs, much like his own. Over the centuries, the dead must have lost their power to preserve their final resting place and the living had moved in. Where had they put the bodies? Theron wondered. And what must they have thought when they opened his tomb and found it empty? A smile found its way to his face. He would have liked to have seen that.

  “I knew you would come here,” a voice behind him said. It had been nine hundred years since he’d heard it last, but he would recognize it anywhere. The smell of jasmine drifted through the night, confirming what he already knew. He turned, allowing his claws to grow for the second time that evening.

  She looked the same as he remembered, with dark, almost black hair that reached down to her waist. Her skin was the color of oak ashes, gray and dark at the same time. The deep brown of her eyes glared at him from a face he had remembered many times over the last nine centuries. He’d forgotten how beautiful she was, and something stirred within him as he recalled their past together. Not love, certainly. He had no place for that. But something pleasant, like finding something you lost long ago. Adonia’s full, thick lips turned up in a smile. He remembered how they had looked with blood dripping from them to roll down her chin.

  Good times.

  “Adonia,” he said. “I had hoped to avoid this.”

  “I’m sure you did,” she replied. “You know the Council has put a bounty on your head.”

  “So I heard. The last I recall, you had little regard for the Council.”

  “That was before they offered a place in the Halls for whoever kills you.” Adonia’s smile vanished, and her eyes glittered in the shadows of her face. “That post should have been mine. I was older. I was stronger. I was far more suited to battle, and yet they offered everything to you, instead.”

  Theron had heard this all before. Nine hundred years ago, to be exact. Adonia’s anger was part of the reason he’d never returned to Athens. “You spoke of the Council as though they were a group of old fools even then. You could not even mention Herris’ name without spitting on the ground. They chose me because they wanted someone loyal.”

  “So they did,” she replied. “And I have waited centuries for you to fall out of their favor. Centuries of hearing stories about your glorious rise through the ranks of the Enforcers. Years spent listening to other Bachiyr speak your name in hushed tones, all the while knowing I was the one they should be fearing. My name they should revere, if not for some twist of the Council’s desire that put you above me.”

  He sighed. “I don’t want to kill you, Adonia.”

  Adonia snorted. “This is long overdue, Theron.” She dropped into a crouch, bringing her hands up to guard her face and torso but leaving her legs free to move. Theron remembered this stance, he’d seen it numerous times during their nights together. Her legs, deceptively fast, could strike from under the guard of her hands at any time, flashing forward like a snake. The tips of her boots bore three-inch wooden spikes, making them that much more dangerous.

  “So it is,” he said, and brought his hands to waist level. From there, he could better block strikes from above and below, and keeping his hands low helped his center of gravity.

  She came at him, a whirling, spinning dance of claws, feet and teeth. She had taught him this move nine centuries ago, and even now there simply was no good way to block her as she rained blows at him from every angle. There was a time when he would have dived in, accepting the wounds as he tried to close with her, but many scars and gallons of lost blood had taught him otherwise. Rather than try to engage, Theron moved a few paces back, putting himself out of reach of her numerous weapons.

  Soon after he backed away, she stopped her spin, planting both feet flat on the ground about shoulder-width apart and slightly bent at the knees. “You still remember,” she said.

  “That and more.”

  “But not this.” She launched herself at him, leading with her claws. It was so bold and amateur an attack that he had not expected it from her, and he barely got his arms up in time to deflect her claws. The impact knocked him to the ground, and she landed on top of him, digging with her claws and snapping at his throat. He tried to grab her wrists but that left him exposed to her bite, so he focused on trying to dislodge her, instead. The two rolled and grappled in the street, sending up small clouds of dust.

  He winced as her claws traced a line across the top half of his face, missing his eyes by a hair’s breadth. His own blood dripped into his mouth, and the taste of it brought his fangs to the surface. He suppressed the urge to lunge at her throat or jab his clawed fingers into her belly, instead trying to hold her back and knock her off him. If he could jar her loose, he might be able to escape. He tried to wriggle out from under her, using his legs for leverage.

  Adonia laughed, smiling at him as he tried to block her attacks rather than strike back. She certainly had no qualms about trying to kill him. He looked in her eyes and realized that, to her mind, she had already won. History together or no, she would not stop until one of them was dead. It reminded him of his former friend and Lead Enforcer, Ephraim. They had worked together for centuries, yet he’d killed Ephraim without a second thought.

  Forgiveness, Jesus had said. That’s what Ephraim had been looking for when Theron killed him. Is that what he wanted? To be forgiven? Could he ever be? It’s not too late, for him or for you...

  Theron knew better.

  Pain ignited in his side as Adonia scored another serious hit. Her claws dug several inches into his abdomen, tearing at the flesh with a wet slurp. His blood flowed over her fingers and into the street beneath him, just as Ephraim’s had flowed over his fingers to drip onto the floor. Ephraim had died without fighting back. Not a single blow. He’d just sat there and waited for his death with a sad expression on his face.

  Not me, Theron thought. He gave up trying to block Adonia and let himself get into the fight, at last. He let go of her wrists and reached for her throat with both hands. Surprised, she did not move away in time, and Theron’s fingers closed around her throat. He dug his clawed thumbs into the soft flesh under her jaw, launching a spray of her blood at his face.

  She raked his arms, trying to claw her way free of his grip, but he accepted the pain willingly, even eagerly. He’d told her he didn’t want to kill her, but as his right thumb brushed against the bone of her lower jaw, he realized now that it was a lie. It would always be a lie. Not only did Theron want to kill her, he wanted to drain her completely and leave her dried out carcass in the street as a warning to any other Bachiyr who might come hunting for him.

  More pain in his side, this one in his lower ribs, as his desperate opponent dug into the flesh, grabbed a rib, and snapped it. The pain was intense, flaring through his torso like fire, but he held on. He pulled her close, bringing her throat down and closer to his mouth. Adonia’s struggles increased in frenzy, and she abandoned her attempts to injure him in favor of breaking free. She put her hands on his chest and pushed, flailing with her legs. Now he was the aggressor, and she was the one trying to escape.

  Theron wrapped his legs around her lower half and pulled her closer to him, taking away her leverage. He then shifted his weight, rolling her onto her back. She slammed her forehead into his face, breaking his nose with an audible crack. More blood spilled onto his lips, but instead of making him wary, it fueled his hunger. He released his grip on her throat and immediately blood welled up from the wound and spilled down over her flesh. He then grabbed her by the face and slammed her head into the hard
stone cobbles. He did so again, and then again. The fourth time, he heard a sharp crack.

  Her arms went limp and her eyes clouded over. She lay stunned and unmoving in the street. The effect would only last a moment, just long enough for her senses to return, but it was long enough. Theron pressed his jaws to her throat and opened her veins, drinking greedily from the fountain of a very old vampire’s well.

  Power surged through him, igniting his nerves along the way as her potent blood filled his every pore. She had lived for over two thousand years, and was a direct child of Lannis. Her potent blood screamed with energy, tearing through his body like lightning. Her body shriveled beneath him but still he drank, unwilling to break the connection.

  When at last the flow of blood ceased, he noticed the utter silence around him. Neither he nor Adonia had cast a Psalm of Silence, but the air was deathly quiet. He raised his head and looked around. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, the heady blood in Adonia’s body had left him with a bit of vertigo. But once his vision cleared he noted several humans standing nearby, watching him with eyes as wide as dates. None of them had moved to intervene, which he took as a good sign.

  Theron shot to his feet and snarled at the crowd, baring his teeth for all to see. All but one of the spectators fled, apparently finding better things to do than confront a murderous Bachiyr. Smart. The single remaining witness stepped forward, and Theron caught a glimpse of his face. It was another Bachiyr, perhaps come to claim the Council’s prize. He looked young, but among his race, appearances meant nothing. However, his nervous expression and the way his fingers fidgeted at his waist told Theron he was probably no more than a few decades old. He might even be one of Adonia’s children. If so, his blood would be sweet, indeed.

  The new Bachiyr’s eyes went from Theron to the dried up corpse of Adonia, and then back. In Theron’s time, Adonia had been the most powerful Bachiyr in the city. That would explain the young vampire’s sudden reluctance.