Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  The Bachiyr threaded his way along the dusty streets. In this part of the city, the streets were little more than hard packed dirt beneath his feet. Londinium had cobbled roads and alleyways, but only in the city’s prominent areas. They would be used by the wealthy while riding in soft, padded coaches. Here, among the taverns and the brothels, no one cared if the wagons jounced wildly along the street. Most of the people here didn’t have so much as a wheelbarrow, anyway.

  He wished he could have gotten here sooner. The moon was already low, leaving only a couple of hours before dawn broke over the eastern horizon. It would take a very lucky break for him to spot either Taras or Theron by then. Londinium wasn’t Rome or Athens, but it was not small by any stretch of the word, and the many people crowding the streets did not help. He estimated he would probably spend several days wandering around the city before he found another Bachiyr, but he was wrong.

  Less than ten minutes later he turned into an alley and found not one, but two.

  9

  Theron stepped out of another tavern—his fifth of the evening—and froze. An icy shiver flashed up his spine and pinned him to the spot. Across the street, facing away from him, a figure clad in a dark cloak stared into an alley. Theron recognized him instantly, even though he hadn’t seen him for nearly thirty years. There was no mistaking the graceful, deadly movements or the close-cropped, curly black hair. Even from across the street, Theron could feel the vast power of the Bachiyr councilor.

  Ramah the Blood Letter had found him.

  Theron had known all along it was only a matter of time. No one could hide from the council forever. The world just wasn’t big enough. Still, he thought he had more time. Another few decades, at least. Had he been that careless? He didn’t think so, but then, you could never be too careful where the Council of Thirteen was concerned.

  He watched, waiting for the elder vampire to turn around and see him. How would he escape this time? A frown creased his face. He wouldn’t escape. Ramah would not let Theron slip through his fingers again. Theron would be lucky to live long enough to receive the Council’s punishment. He stood, frozen in place, and waited for the worst.

  But Ramah didn’t turn. His attention remained focused in the dark recesses of the alley across the street. And when he stepped into it, Theron didn’t bother to question his luck. He backed away from the tavern and ducked around the corner of a building. Once out of sight, he turned and ran as fast as he could.

  Taras or no Taras, if Ramah was in the city, then Theron would find someplace else to be. And fast.

  He ran down the street, pushing aside any of the town’s residents who got in his way. The crowds were starting to thin; most of the people who were leaving had already gone. He headed for the city’s main gate. The road outside the gate led, eventually, back to the coast. He would not be able to get there tonight, but numerous houses and cottages dotted the roads in Britannia, it would be simple enough to find a place to spend the day. Then tomorrow night he would make the port town and arrange passage back to Spain. It wouldn’t cost him much. He could convince most any captain to take him for free.

  Fear is a powerful bargaining tool.

  He turned one last corner, ready to make a beeline for the gate, when he crashed painfully into something solid and unyielding. Theron fell on his back, sputtering curses at himself. When he regained his senses, he saw a figure standing over him, silhouetted by torchlight. He didn’t have time to kill the stranger, so instead he tried to get to his feet.

  He made it halfway up when someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms behind his back. Theron snarled, all thoughts of leaving these people alive gone from his mind in the instant it took him to realize he was about to be robbed. He tensed his muscles, preparing himself to rip the arms of the person behind him off and use them to beat the person in front of him to death.

  But he couldn’t pull free. He struggled and squirmed, but his assailant was far too strong. It took him a moment to realize what that meant, and indeed, when he forced himself to calm down he heard the figure in front of him—a woman—chanting a psalm. He didn’t recognize it, but he could guess well enough its purpose. She was using magic to immobilize him.

  “Well, Taras,” she said when she finished. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Taras?” Theron asked. The grip on his arm tightened, and the joint in his elbow twisted painfully to the side.

  Then the woman stepped away from the torch and Theron saw her face. For the second time that evening, he froze. Theron knew who she was instantly. He had only seen her face once before, back in Alexandria, but he would never forget it. To his knowledge he was the only Enforcer to have ever looked upon the face of the most wanted Bachiyr in the history of his race and live to tell the tale. Back then he had vowed to kill her if he ever saw her again, even though he doubted he ever would. To see her here, now, and with Ramah only a few blocks away. It couldn’t be coincidence.

  “You,” he said.

  “You remember me,” she said. “I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t be,” Theron retorted. “I also remember my dog. She was a bitch, too.”

  The woman smiled. “This is going to be fun.” She reached out her hand, bringing it to his cheek. Just before she touched him, Theron saw the sparks crackling up and down her palm. Another psalm he didn’t know. Damn.

  She touched her palm to his face, and for an instant Theron felt a jolt of electricity sizzle through his body. Then the world went dark.

  10

  They stood with their backs to him, two Bachiyr of seemingly local origin to judge by their clothes and their accents. They smelled newly turned, not more than a month dead. The pair stood with their necks bent, looking down at a sobbing woman who lay squirming on the alley floor. One of them chuckled, and the other kicked the woman in the side, eliciting a sharp cry of pain. The smell of blood hung in the air, a tantalizing coppery scent that would have attracted other vampires to the alley like sharks. As it happened, Ramah was the first shark to the scene, and these two vampires would never live to finish the woman off.

  He stepped forward, his fangs and claws tucked away for the moment. In truth, Ramah did not need either to deal with the two vampires. He could kill them from a hundred yards away if he chose, but that was less entertaining than spilling their blood in the street with his bare hands. His search for Theron and Taras had thus far proven fruitless, and it would feel good to release some of his irritation on these two renegades.

  That the two figures standing in the shadows of the alley were Bachiyr was obvious, but they didn’t look familiar. Granted, he’d been away from the Halls many times, often for months or years at a time, but he still knew most of the other vampires in the world. That was by design. All Bachiyr had to be approved by the Council before they could be turned.

  Unless they were turned during one of his absences, they had to be renegades. And the Council’s law on renegade Bachiyr was quite clear: terminate immediately. It would be a nice distraction before he went back to looking for Theron and Taras.

  Ramah leaned against a wall and cleared his throat loudly. Both renegades turned to face him. Even the woman looked up. When she saw Ramah her face lit with such hope that Ramah couldn’t help but chuckle. Doubtless she thought he was there to save her. Once he killed the other two Bachiyr she would be his next meal. It was nice of them to tenderize her first.

  “Go away,” one of the vampires said. “This doesn’t concern you.”

  “Wait, Elias,” the other said. “”We’ll need as much blood as we can get for later, right?”

  “True,” Elias replied, grinning. “I guess he can stay after all, Brecht.”

  The one called Brecht turned his body around to face Ramah and bared his teeth. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This won’t hurt much.”

  Ramah almost laughed. This was going to be fun.

  ***

  Taras and his new ally dragged Theron through the tavern district. They hel
d him up between them, making him look like a drunk being helped home by his friends. They needn’t have bothered with the ruse, the streets of Londinium were all but deserted, with only the moon to keep them company.

  “How much farther?” Taras asked, wanting to get this over with. Despite his desire to kill Theron, the woman made him nervous.

  “Right over there,” Lannis said, pointing. “In that alley.”

  Taras looked. About thirty yards away was a narrow opening between two ramshackle taverns. Just beyond it, on the city’s skyline, he could see the faint lightening of the horizon that signaled the upcoming dawn. He hoped Lannis had a place to wait out the daylight hours.

  Before they reached the alley they heard a shout of pain, immediately followed by a severed head bouncing out of the darkness and into the street. Taras froze, noting the sharp fangs in the dead, rolling face. Another vampire?

  He turned to Lannis, but her expression showed just as much confusion as he felt. She blinked, then said, “Brecht?”

  The head rolled by without responding, of course, and her face soon changed from confused to angry. She dropped Theron’s shoulder, sending half his torso into the dirt. The claws on her hands extended outward. She snarled and took a step toward the alley.

  Just then a body flew out in a splatter of crimson and flesh. The smell of blood hit Taras’s nostrils like a hurricane, nearly bowling him over. The body landed hard in the street, and Taras noted that despite the many rips and tears, this one’s head was still attached. When one of the arms moved, and the victim tried to pull himself away from the alley, Taras guessed he probably wished he wasn’t living, after all.

  “Elias!” Lannis yelled. “What is happening here? I left you—”

  Her voice trailed off as a figure stepped from the alley entrance. Taras stared in awe. He’d seen this vampire once before, in Jerusalem. He didn’t know much about the elder vampire except that Theron had seemed terrified of him. Lannis, too, had stopped in her tracks.

  “Ramah,” she whispered.

  Ramah. Another Council Member. Good. He would see Taras helping Lannis to bring Theron to justice. That could only expedite things for him.

  At the sound of his name, Ramah turned to face them. Taras steeled himself against the dark visage. Ramah stood drenched in the blood of two vampires that Taras could only assume were renegades like himself. Maybe they’d attacked Ramah while he waited in the alley. Judging by the results, it was very poor judgment on their part.

  When Ramah’s eyes settled on him, Taras felt a shiver crawl up his spine. The smile on that bloody face didn’t look friendly at all.

  “You,” Ramah said. “Taras, isn’t it?”

  Taras nodded.

  Ramah chuckled. “Is that Theron with you?”

  Taras nodded again. “I’ve been working with Councilor Lannis to bring him to justice.” Taras motioned to his right, where Lannis had been standing when Ramah stepped out of the shadows.

  But she wasn’t there.

  Ramah chuckled. “Really? Where is she, Taras?”

  Taras let go of Theron’s wrist and backed away a few steps. “She was right here. Didn’t she tell you about our deal?”

  “Deal?” Ramah’s voice sounded light. Amused.

  Shit. He could tell by Ramah’s bemused smirk that the Councilor thought he was lying. Where the hell was Lannis? She should be helping him, not disappearing. Now he was in real danger. He made ready to run, not wanting any part of another fight with Ramah. The last time he’d fought the elder vampire, only the interference of the people near Jerusalem’s Damascus Gate had saved him. This time the streets were empty, and he had no doubt who would prove the victor. He turned and sprinted for a side street.

  Before he’d gone ten paces Ramah stood in front of him, materializing as if from the very air itself. Taras couldn’t stop, so he ducked his head and charged, hoping to surprise Ramah and bowl his way past.

  It felt like he ran into a stone wall. He bounced off Ramah’s torso in a fit of stars and pain, and for a moment the whole world disappeared. The next thing he knew, he was lying in the street, dizzy and confused, while a shadow crossed his face. He looked up just in time to see Ramah’s clawed hand skewer his throat. The pain flared through his body like fire, and as Ramah lifted Taras off the ground by his ripped and bleeding neck, he smiled.

  “Not this time, Taras.” Ramah said. “You will not escape me again.”

  Taras coughed and choked on the blood pooling in his throat. He knew he would not live to see the moon again.

  Ramah reached back with his other hand and punched forward, sending his second set of claws into Taras’s gut. Taras screamed at the searing pain in his belly, but no sound came out. The entire street had gone deathly silent. He knew what that meant. Ramah had cast a psalm to keep from waking the city’s inhabitants.

  Taras reached out with a trembling hand and tried to swat at Ramah’s arm, but it did no good. Ramah batted his hand away as though he were a fly. Then Ramah brought his face to Taras’s neck and tore into his flesh. The pain was intense, but mercifully short. Soon Taras felt nothing at all other than a heavy tiredness that he’d never experienced before. He saw the lightening glow on the horizon and wondered if Ramah would manage to kill him before the sun peeked over the rooftops. Then there was nothing.

  ***

  In a large but drafty tent many miles from Londinium, Boudica’s youngest daughter, Lannosea, watched her mother sleep. The Queen’s twin braids spread out on the pillow around her head. Lannosea sighed. Even in repose her mother’s face looked angry and violent, as though she could wake at any moment and sever an enemy’s head with a single swing. Before her father’s death, her mother was regarded as one of the most beautiful women in the Iceni lands and beyond. It was hard to reconcile that once lovely face with the constant frown the queen now wore even in her dreams.

  Lannosea twisted her hair in her hands. She had the striking pale yellow hair of the Iceni, and like her mother, she wore it long. Lannie’s hair reached to her waist. But unlike Boudica, her hair cascaded down her back freely rather than in braids. She grabbed a handful of it, remembering the feel of the thick braids down her back. Those days were gone for her. Braids like her mother’s were meant for battle. Lannosea’s hair would never be braided again. She wished she could say the same for her mother and sister, but these days both of them wore their braids constantly, even sleeping in them most nights.

  The Trinovante were of little help. Their lust for blood was nearly as great as Boudica’s own. Ditto her sister. They all called to her, tried to tell her how wonderful things would be once the Romans were defeated and driven from Iceni lands. They all seemed to think their lives would return to normal.

  Lannosea closed her mother’s bed curtain and walked out of the royal tent, heading for her own less spacious accommodations. Tears fell from her sky blue eyes as she walked. Unlike her companions, she didn’t believe in their righteous desire to avenge the wrongs done to her people. They could talk all they want about returning to normal, but Lannosea knew the truth. No matter the outcome of tomorrow’s battle, or the one after that, or even the one after that, “normal” was forever a thing of the past.

  She rubbed her belly, glad for the loose fitting gown that hid her shame from her mother’s ever angry eyes. Four months. Soon she would no longer be able to hide the truth. What would her mother say, then? Would she cast her out? Have her executed? Both seemed possible with the way Boudica’s temper had turned.

  No, she thought, shaking her head sadly. Things will never be normal again.

  ***

  This changes everything, she thought. I will need a new plan.

  She sat in the shadows of an abandoned cellar which she had appropriated for her own use. The place was secure against sunlight and intrusion, and should serve her needs through the upcoming day. The bare floor would not be comfortable, but it would not be the worst place she had slept. Thousands of years of hiding from the Council
of Thirteen had seen her spend the day in places that made this dry, empty cellar seem like a palace.

  But all that was about to end. Ramah was in Londinium! That could only mean the Council had opened a portal in the city and they knew Taras or Theron would be here. Possibly both. Herris would take any opportunity to capture either of them, but both? He was probably foaming at the bit when he sent Ramah. If he knew she was in the city, as well, he would probably have come himself instead of sending Ramah.

  Damn. Ramah. Had he seen her? No, she didn’t think so. If he had, he would most certainly have come after her. Thankfully that had not occurred. A small blessing, but she would take it. The Blood Letter did not know she was in the city.

  But Theron did. And the former Enforcer would no doubt tell Ramah about her presence at his first opportunity.

  But was that really such a bad thing?

  She sat at the table and thought about her next move. Perhaps Theron was right where she needed him to be. Once Ramah learned of her presence he would no doubt come looking for her. All she had to do was avoid him long enough to free Theron and lead him out of the city. Ramah had probably brought a Lost One to guard the two prisoners during the day, but that would be easy enough to deal with.

  She would leave Taras behind. Ramah would want to question the Roman about Theron’s escape, and that would buy her a little more time. Just outside the city was a large forested area filled with oaks, maples, and many others, and she wanted to be there by the time the Blood Letter caught up. It was the perfect place for an ambush.

  After tomorrow night she would never have to run from Ramah again.

  11

  When Theron opened his eyes, he found himself tied to a wooden bench with a length of thick rope. Around him stood the bare stone walls of an empty cell. There were no windows, but a draft tickled his right cheek. The air smelled of mold, and he guessed he was in a basement somewhere. He tried to raise his shoulders and shift the rope aside, but it held fast. Under normal circumstances, he would have been able to break it, but his head felt odd and his muscles lacked their normal strength.