Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  “Well, now,” she said to the thing. “You are in a bad place.”

  “You speak Roman,” it said in perfect Iceni. “That’s interesting.”

  So the creature spoke their language. It didn’t surprise her, the Bachiyr had been paying a great deal of attention to the comings and goings around the cage, especially the orders from the queen. No one listened that intently to conversations they couldn’t understand. “It is wise to know your enemy’s language,” she replied, switching to Iceni.

  “More likely you were taught Roman before Nero broke his treaty,” it replied.

  She nodded. It was smart. Good. “My name is—”

  “Princess Heanua,” he interrupted, smiling. “Greetings, Princess.”

  “I am here because—”

  “You want something from me,” he finished for her. “Oh, don’t look so surprised. Despite what you told our slow-witted friend, the north wall has already fallen, as you well know. I must admit I am curious. Why would a princess lie? Not that I am complaining, mind you.”

  How the hell did he know about the northern wall? No matter. “I would make a bargain with you,” she said. “I will release you from this cage and from my mother’s sentence. In return you must perform a task for me. Do you agree to my terms, Bachiyr?”

  “My name is—”

  “I care not for your name, only for your answer.” She raised both hands, showing him the keys and the crossbow again. “I can kill you or set you free, the choice is yours.”

  “What task do you require?” he asked. “Do you still wish to throw me back into the city to fight for your cause?”

  Damn him. The Bachiyr had good ears. “I will tell you after you agree.”

  “I should like to know to what I am agreeing to before I agree to it.”

  “That is not the deal,” she said, jangling the keys for effect. “Agree to my terms or die with the sun. You choose.”

  The Bachiyr turned his head toward the eastern horizon. The sky had begun to lighten slightly. It had not turned pink yet, but the black of night no longer reached the ground. Sunrise was an hour away at the most. He turned his face back to her, his thin lips tightened into a grin.

  “It would seem I have little choice,” he said.

  “I’ll have your word, Bachiyr.”

  “You have it,” he replied. “Release me and I will perform any task you require of me.”

  “Swear it.”

  “By The Father, I swear it,” he replied. “What would you have me do?”

  Heanua didn’t know what ‘By The Father’ meant, but it would have to do. She stepped up to the cage door and inserted the key into the lock, checking behind her to make sure no one was looking. Then she unlocked the cage door and stepped inside, setting the crossbow on the floor and pulling her dagger from her belt.

  The Bachiyr eyed the dagger. “I have agreed to your terms princess,” he said. “There is no need for that.”

  “It’s for the ropes, not you,” she said.

  The Bachiyr laughed, then slid his hands from behind his back. The wrists and palms were so thin they looked almost delicate. She stared, her eyes wide, as they filled out, thickening to their normal girth in a matter of seconds.

  “As I said, there is no need for that,” the Bachiyr stated, pointing at the dagger.

  “You could have walked away at any time,” Heanua noted.

  “Not quite. The archers, you see.”

  Heanua nodded. The archers would have filled his body with arrows the moment he twitched. “Then you did need my help. So to our bargain.”

  “Indeed,” the Bachiyr said. “What does a princess of the Iceni wish of me? You want me to steal into the city and slaughter the Roman guards there?”

  “No,” Heanua said. “That will not be necessary. The battle for Londinium is well in hand.”

  “I hear the other princess is lost somewhere inside the city. Do you want me to find her and bring her back?”

  Damn him, how did he know all this? He must have ears like a bat! “My sister has made her choice,” she said. “She will turn up or not, as she sees fit.”

  “Then what—”

  “I want you to kill my mother.”

  ***

  Baella removed her claws from the throat of her last opponent, sending a spray of blood in the air. The body slid to the street and landed in the sticky dirt with a wet thump. All around her lay the torn corpses of the men who had accosted her and cost Baella her prize. They got what they deserved. Of the dozen or so men that attacked her, eight now lay dead at her feet. The other four had come to their senses and left to find easier sport elsewhere. But the damage was done.

  Ramah was gone.

  “Damn you,” she kicked the body of her last victim, hearing the satisfying crack as his ribcage shattered. “You cost me everything!” The unfortunate man groaned in pain, but it was weak and shallow. He would be dead before she left the street. Now that the battle was over, she wished she could prolong his life, that she might make him endure more pain than he already had.

  But there wasn’t time. To the east, the sky had begun to lighten. She had an hour at the most before the sun peeked over the horizon. If she was not in a safe place by then, it would no longer matter where Ramah had gone.

  Ramah! The sun might kill him, too. If he did not regain consciousness before the sunrise, he would be stuck on the back of that horse while the sunlight turned him into ashes. She couldn’t allow that. He was too valuable.

  Her portal was in the center of the city, which had not yet been destroyed by the Iceni attack. As it happened, the Council of Thirteen maintained a similar portal nearby, which is where Ramah would go if he did awaken in time.

  Baella set off down the street, trying to determine which way the horse had gone. Both portals were close at hand, so she could spare a little time to try and find him. She would have to be careful around the Council’s portal; no telling who would emerge from that dark hole. With such a great prize at stake, however, she would risk it.

  Ramah, the great Ramah. Second of the Council of Thirteen. Inside his head lurked all the secrets of her race. Four thousand years of history and conquest could be hers, and the information in his head could be used to bring the Council of Thirteen to its knees and end, once and for all, The Father’s influence in the world of the Bachiyr. Truly, he was a great and valuable prize, indeed.

  Yet for Baella, Ramah’s greatest value lay in what he didn’t know.

  29

  Taras wiped the blood from his lips with his sleeve, but only succeeded in smearing it further. The Iceni woman, her attention focused on him rather than her own feet, barreled into the last of her attackers. Both fell over in a tangle of limbs, clothes, and hair. Her fingers clawed and scratched, and the man punched and kicked. They looked like two drunken brawlers in the street. He stepped forward to intervene, but it soon became apparent that the woman, in a fair fight and left to her own devices, was quite capable of defending herself.

  Military training, he realized, and wondered if all Iceni women received it. He did not intend to stick around long enough to find out. Through the small window, he noted the lightening of the sky. Dawn was close. Too close. If he meant to escape the city with his life he would have to leave soon and make his way to the smuggler’s hole. Hopefully it remained undisturbed since the last time he’d used it.

  He stayed in the room long enough to hear the man scream and watch the woman remove her bloody dagger from his belly. She drove it in a second time, twisting as she went. The man’s cries could surely be heard out in the street, if there was anyone out there to hear it. Given the secluded location—the men had wanted their privacy, after all—Taras doubted it. Just so, he thought. The man deserved everything she did to him.

  She stabbed the man five more times, until his screams turned into soft whimpers, then quieted to a weak, choking gurgle. By the time she finished the man lay still on the wooden floor, his blank eyes staring up at the ceil
ing. She spat on his face and rose to her feet. The smell of blood was everywhere, but Taras had fed already. His urge to kill the woman faded as the brigand’s blood filled his body. She was no longer in any danger from him, if indeed she ever was, but she could not know that.

  As she turned around, Taras stepped behind the corner, not wanting her to see him standing there. He should leave now. He hadn’t meant to stay behind this long, but he wanted to make sure the woman lived. Now that she had, he could go underground and wait out the day.

  But he didn’t.

  He listened for the sound of the woman’s feet. When they finally came she sounded off balance, her feet shuffled along the floor with a soft hiss. Something was wrong with her. Probably something to do with the blood on her legs. Initially he’d thought the blood the product of the men who tried to rape her, but now he wasn’t so sure. Out in the street, weak and injured, she would have little chance if another group of Romans came upon her.

  It’s not your concern, he told himself. You have helped her once already.

  He stepped around the wall and looked at the dead man on the floor. A trail of blood led away from him and down the hall, spotted here and there by bloody footprints. There was too much blood for it to all belong to the dead man. Some of it must be hers.

  And if it is? What is that to you?

  An unwanted image came to his mind, then. Mary, lying bloody and broken in an alley in Jerusalem’s Market District. She wore the tattered remains of an expensive blue dress that would have been unseemly in the pious sect of the city. Even then, he knew she’d worn it for him. For their trip to Rome.

  But Theron found her first. Had anyone tried to help her? Would it have made a difference? Probably not, but it didn’t matter. If anyone had been near to hand, they had not helped, else Taras would have found more than one body in the alley that night.

  “Damn it,” he swore. He turned and followed the woman’s trail.

  You’re going to die, Taras, he told himself. The sun is going to rise in under an hour, and you will be nothing but a well-intentioned pile of dust in these accursed streets. His assassin’s instincts, honed over years of serving Rome from the shadows, told him this was madness. The woman’s eyes had widened to the size of dates when she saw him. Even if he could find her, she would resist his help, and likely he would only succeed in attracting the attention of the Romans or the Iceni roaming the city, which would get them both killed. He should find his hole and get out of the city while he still could.

  Mary’s still, lifeless face, laying on a slab of stone in her dark, chilly tomb, her throat torn and shredded beyond repair. A single red flower lay on her chest, unmoving in the still, stale air. He did not know the name of the flower, only that it was pretty, and Mary liked them. Her father Abraham, who thought Taras killed her. He hadn’t, but that did not stop Abraham from attacking. His body lay in the tomb, as well, their bones forever close to each other. She would have liked that.

  No one had helped either of them. Just as no one had helped Taras.

  “There is always a choice,” he whispered under his breath. Even if it is not a very good choice.

  Taras turned and ran into the street, following the Iceni woman’s trail of blood.

  ***

  Theron stared at the young princess, for once unable to think of a witty reply. Her mother, he thought. She wants me to kill her own mother. To her credit, she did not look afraid or ashamed, and after a moment a slight smile crept onto his face. I hadn’t expected that. He had thought she meant to use him as a weapon against her enemies beyond the wall, but instead she wanted to deal with those on this side of it. Interesting.

  “Your mother?” he said when he found his voice. “The queen? Why?”

  “That is not your concern. You have your task, Bachiyr, and precious little time in which to do it.”

  “Too true,” Theron replied.

  “Dawn is quite near,” she said.

  Theron eyed her again. “Indeed.”

  Power. It had to be for power. What else could it be? Power could drive ordinary people to great lengths. Simon, the former clerk of the Council’s Jerusalem Gate, had dreamed a similar dream. He’d wanted Theron’s power, and had gone to great lengths to try and achieve it. But Theron was the stronger, and Simon’s death had never been in question by Theron or the Council. They had sent him to die at Theron’s hand, more for Theron’s benefit than the wayward clerk’s. The Council of Thirteen could never be trusted, not even by their own servants.

  Thinking of Simon always reminded him of the Nazarene. You have been lied to, vampire. Jesus’ words. And you have been betrayed. Every night Theron heard them in his head. The rabbi’s promise of forgiveness often played through his mind as he hunted those who called themselves Christians. It was all a lie, of course. Theron would no more be forgiven by the rabbi’s God than he would the Council. In the end, he was alone.

  But alone was better. Alone was faster. Alone made it easier to hide and easier to feed. Alone, he could write his own rules. He could—

  “Bachiyr,” the princess said, interrupting his thoughts. “You owe me a life.”

  Speaking of which, he thought. Theron grabbed the princess by the throat and pulled her close. She struggled, but even in his weakened state she could not match his strength or speed. He turned her body away from him, inserting his leg between her feet to keep her off balance, and put a hand on the side of her head. He pushed her head to the side, exposing her pale throat. The smell of her sweat and her sudden fear excited him almost as much as the low pulse of her blood beneath his fingertips.

  “We had a deal, Bachiyr,” she said.

  “So we did,” he replied.

  “You gave me your word.”

  Theron laughed. “I did, indeed. And I mean to keep it, but your life was never part of our bargain.” He covered her mouth with his hand, muffling her reply, and tore into her throat with his teeth. The princess was young and vital, her blood filled with life and energy. It flowed into him like a warm, turbulent river, and his skin started to tingle as his many cuts and scrapes began to heal. With every passing second, he felt more whole, more alive. More himself. Theron drained her, savoring every drop as her struggles slowed, and then stopped altogether.

  When he was finished, he released her. The corpse fell to the wooden floor of the cage with a heavy thud, spraying a handful of stray droplets of blood across the boards. His hunger sated, he stepped around her body, which looked quiet and peaceful in the fading night. Were it not for the two large, gaping holes in her throat, she might have been sleeping.

  Dawn was not far off, and he needed to get to a safe place. But what to do with the princess? Should he burn the cage to dispose of the body? Did he have time? Probably. He looked around for a torch.

  Still living by their rules, are you?

  The words came unbidden to his mind. Even though Baella had betrayed him and left him for the Iceni—and gods help her if he ever found her again—her point remained valid. The Council of Thirteen had betrayed him, when all he ever wanted was to serve them. Damn it, Theron would not live by their rules any more. He walked out of the cage, feeling better than he had since his arrival in Londinium.

  At the door, he paused to take one last look at the princess’s corpse. “You should have listened to your mother,” he said. Then he was off, out into the night. He ran from the army encampment at full speed, dodging soldiers and their campfires with ease thanks to his stolen blood. But he could not outrun the sun, and he knew it. He needed a safe place to wait out the day.

  But where?

  He did not know the city of Londinium, having never been there before. If there were any sanctuaries or tunnels in the city, he had no idea where they were, or where to begin looking. But he knew someone who did.

  Taras.

  The northerner had probably lived in Londinium for a number of years, hiding from the Council’s eyes. It was the perfect place. Until recently, the Council of Thirteen
hadn’t even had a Gatehouse here. Taras would have had free run of the city, without having to worry about any Enforcers finding him. If there were any safe havens within Londinium’s walls, he would know where they were and how to use them.

  If the bastard’s still alive, he thought. Not likely. The last time he’d seen the tall renegade, he’d left him on the floor to slow Ramah down. Not that it would slow him down much; the Blood Letter was as vicious as he was powerful. Taras had probably not lived long enough to plead for mercy. Still, if Ramah hadn’t killed him outright, he might still be useful. It was a slim hope, but it was his only one.

  Theron sprinted toward Londinium, now little more than a flaming ruin, searching for his worst enemy.

  ***

  Baella ran through the city, darting between battles and leaping over the dead and dying. She sent fresh blood to her legs as needed in order to speed through the streets faster than anyone could follow. The few nicks and cuts she received while dodging through the chaos were worth the irritation. She needed to find that horse. Everything she did in Londinium, she had done to capture Ramah. Baella had even made six new Bachiyr to help her. Ramah had killed most of them, but it was not so great a loss. She would have killed any that survived the night, anyway, in order to make certain no one could track her. She’d put far too much work into this to abandon her plan now. She had to find him. Had to.

  Yet the sun would not be denied.

  The sky above the eastern horizon was bright orange. In a few minutes, the first rays of the sun would put an end to this night, and she could wait no longer.

  “Damn it all,” she swore. “Not again.” It didn’t seem fair. She was so close this time. Ramah had actually been in her grasp. Damn those bastards who’d attacked her. She wished she could kill them again. If not for their interference, she and Ramah would be safe inside the walls of her keep by now. Instead she was standing in the middle of a burnt city, while Ramah bounced around unconscious on the back of her stolen horse, waiting for the dawn to come and turn him into a pile of ashes.