Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

In his mind, he pictured the great Herris on his knees, begging Theron to spare him. Theron would let him beg for a while, just for fun, and then he would kill him, along with the rest of the damned Council. Especially Ramah. He clenched his blackened fist at the memory of Ramah coming to Jerusalem to arrest him. That black-hearted bastard would be the last to die. Theron would make sure of it. But not before he, and the rest of the Bachiyr, realized what true power was. Only after they realized their folly and the stupidity of their blind servitude would he release them from the torments he had planned. Only then would he allow them to die.

  The Father will not protect you, he thought. Not from me.

  Of course, in order for that to happen, his experiment had to work…

  He stopped at a thick wooden door, its surface covered with ancient words of infernal power. Theron had written them in the occupant’s blood, which he kept in a small glass vial. Before he opened the door, he checked to make sure he had the vial with him. It wouldn’t do for him to enter without his sole means of control. It was there, tied to the thin leather thong around his neck, just like always. Satisfied, he tucked the vial back under his shirt, grasped the handle, and pulled. The door opened easily—he never bothered to lock it—and he stepped into the small, stone room, eager to grab the woman and go.

  She lay in a heap on the floor, glaring up at him through tangles of matted, filthy hair. Her sparse frame—thin even before they met—showed the underlying structure of her bones. Her pale skin almost gleamed in the light of the room’s only torch, her pallor enhanced by the dried, crusted blood on her chin. A short distance away, the body of a small child lay cold and empty on the stone floor. A girl this time, no more than six or seven years of age, with the dark hair and brown eyes so common in the area around Vesuvius. Theron had brought the girl to the caves last week. It had taken that long for the woman to feed.

  The girl’s eyes were closed, and her clothes had been manipulated to cover the wounds on her smooth, pale throat. Theron could not see the punctures through the fabric, but he knew from experience they would be minimal. As small a wound as his prisoner could manage while in the throes of her hunger. The girl’s hands lay folded peacefully atop her tiny chest. Apart from her unnatural pallid countenance, she could have been sleeping. He couldn’t suppress a chuckle.

  “Why do you arrange them like that, Galle?” he asked. “Does it ease your guilt to imagine they are only napping? Does it make you feel better about killing them?”

  She spat at him, a thick, red wad of blood and saliva that fell far short of its mark.

  Theron could not help but smile at the irony of it. She hated him for bringing her children, but her stubborn and rebellious nature meant he could not bring her anything else. “If I could trust you,” he said, “I would bring you stronger blood. Adults. Criminals, perhaps. People who deserve death. Your own intransigence forces me to bring little ones.”

  “I would need none of them if not for you,” she replied, her voice hoarse. “Why don’t you kill me and be done with it?”

  “You know I can’t. I need you.”

  “You don’t need me. There are others. Take someone else.”

  Theron laughed. “So now you would wish your life on another?”

  “A bandit, perhaps?” she pleaded. “There are plenty of them on the mountain. You could easily find someone who deserves this fate.”

  “Indeed I could,” he admitted. “But I will not.”

  “I did nothing wrong!” she screeched, the points of her fangs extending beyond her lip. In her ire they had grown, likely unbidden. “Nothing! My only mistake was to trust you. And him.”

  “True enough,” he said. “You should have walked away.”

  She scrambled forward, and her bare knees scraped against the rough stone, leaving twin trails of blood on the floor. Once she reached him, she knelt at his feet, grasping his leg with thin, clawing fingers.

  “Please,” she said. “I beg you. Release me.”

  “So you can find revenge?”

  “So I can find peace.”

  He reached down and plucked her fingers from his clothes. Easy. Like pulling a child’s hand from a broken toy. “No.”

  She stared at him for a moment, her own self-loathing and fear etched deep into her face, then her shoulders slumped. She sat back on her legs and looked at the floor, her shoulders drooping, probably wishing she could still cry. She’d expressed such a desire to him before. It was a stupid thing to wish for, in Theron’s mind, and a complete waste of time. Tears would never come to her again, nor would they solve anything if they did.

  “It’s time,” he said. “You must earn your keep once again.”

  Galle raised a thin arm and waved him away. Her many scars and burns stood out against the pale skin of her forearm, a mute testament of her time with him. Theron noted them and absentmindedly rubbed the skin of his right hand, running his fingers over the blackened flesh. Even after forty-six years, the skin of his right hand had never healed properly. It still looked dry and burnt, the result of his brush with the Nazarene in Jerusalem. That night had been his undoing. The burned flesh served as a reminder of the high cost of failure.

  “Go without me, then,” Galle said, bringing his mind back to the present. “I will help you no longer.” She rose to her feet and turned her back on him.

  Theron reached under his tunic and produced the vial of her blood. “My dear Galle,” he said. “You are wrong about that.”

  He brushed his fingertips along the outside edge of the vial and whispered, “Esh.”

  The effect was immediate. Galle screamed and fell to her knees, her body curling into a tight ball as she rolled over and flopped across the floor, frantically slapping her skin with her own hands. Thin tendrils of steam rose from her eyes, nose, ears, and mouth. Even though her crotch was covered by her thin clothes, Theron knew steam would be flowing from those places, as well. Any opening in the body, he thought. If he cut her, steam would billow forth from the wound. He recalled her scraped knees and checked. Sure enough, small clouds of vapor rose from them, as well.

  “What…what are you doing to me?” Galle screamed, the words barely decipherable.

  “I call it Esh,” Theron said. “A little psalm I created not long ago to deal with other Bachiyr. The heat you feel inside your body is your blood boiling away. Is it painful?”

  Galle whimpered, still slapping her skin.

  “Then we have an understanding,” Theron said. He allowed the burning to continue for a count of ten, just to make his point, then he whispered a second word over the vial. “Mayim.”

  Galle’s frantic rolling ceased, but her whimpering continued even as the flow of steam from her eyes and mouth abated. She lay on the stone, panting. Theron couldn’t understand that. The woman had no need of air. The panting must be instinctive, a holdover from her previous life. Curious. He would have to do some tests on that, too.

  But first, the fire.

  “Come, Galle,” he said, tucking the vial back under his tunic. “We have work to do.”

  Obediently, Galle rose on shaky legs. She turned to face him and he almost swore. Her face had thinned, even wrinkled. She looked like a grape that had spent too much time in the sun.

  I burned too much, he thought. She will need to feed again sooner than I expected. No matter. The city below was full of young urchins. They wandered the streets of Pompeii like rats in a grain warehouse. He would visit his contact in Pompeii this very evening and secure another.

  “Shall we?” he asked, motioning her toward the door.

  Galle stepped forward, stumbled, and then righted herself. She spared a glance for the dead girl in the middle of her cell, then turned toward the door.

  “Wait,” Theron said. “Bring the body. We should dispose of it now, while you still have the strength to carry it.”

  Galle’s head lowered, but she did as instructed. She reached down and picked up the body of the dead child, cradling it gently in her arms
, and carried it through the doorway. As she passed him, she paused. “You will make a mistake one of these nights, Theron. When you do, I will be ready.”

  “I know,” Theron replied, grinning. “You and the Council.”

  “If they are as powerful as you say, they will find us eventually.”

  “I certainly hope so,” he replied. “Now go. We have only a few hours of night left and I still need to make a trip into the city.”

  “Into the city?” she asked. “You are going to see him, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. You will need nourishment, after all.”

  “Why not simply bring him here? If nourishing me is your goal, he would provide me with plenty.”

  “Too much, actually,” Theron replied. “He is strong and vital, not weak and hungry like these little ones. In any case, I need him. At least for now. But once this is done, I will release you, and you can seek him out yourself. Provided you are still alive, of course.”

  She looked like she wanted to say more, but he tucked his hand inside the folds of his tunic and she took the hint. She turned away and walked down the passage as steadily as her legs would allow. Theron watched her go, admiring the results of his work. The Esh had worked even better than he could have hoped. It would prove useful in the future, especially against the Council of Thirteen and their minions. Of course, he would first have to acquire some of their blood. It was the only flaw in his scheme, though not an insurmountable obstacle by any means.

  But then, once he figured out the secrets of the fire, even the Council would be at his mercy. Not that he would show them any.

  He chuckled to himself as he followed along behind Galle. She was right, of course. The Council of Thirteen would find him eventually. They always found their prey eventually. He would be no exception. The thought didn’t scare him as much as he would have thought. Ever since Londinium, he had been experimenting with blood manipulations that had never been taught to ordinary Bachiyr. He supposed he had Taras to thank for that. The tall Roman had inadvertently shown him that there was so much more to the world of blood and psalms than the Council of Thirteen had ever mentioned—perhaps even more than they themselves were aware of. Ever since that moment, his world had opened up to a myriad of new and deadly possibilities.

  He would be sure to give Taras his thanks the next time he saw him, if ever. The last time Theron had bothered to check, the tall Roman was somewhere in Hispania, taking out his vengeance on bandits and robbers in the area.

  Yet another one who does not understand what it means to be Bachiyr, Theron thought. Like Galle, Taras retained a lingering sense of his basic human weakness. Theron tried not to let it bother him, but in truth, their attitudes marked a failure on his part. An amusing failure, but a failure nonetheless. Why were his two most recent progeny so defective?

  Perhaps after he finished his current experiment, he would conduct a few more. This time, he would focus on Galle’s mind instead of her body.

  They reached the heavy stone door that marked the entrance to the chamber where tonight’s work would take place. Theron spoke a word, and the door creaked open. Galle walked through it, for once without comment, and Theron followed her.

  Inside was a massive stone room, much larger than any others in the small, naturally formed complex, but it was special. In the center of the room was a large hole Theron had cut into the floor, revealing a natural vein of molten stone. It glowed bright orange, and the thick, oppressive heat stifled even those like him who had no need to breathe. When Theron had first formed the hole, the surface of the magma had been two feet from the lip of the pool. Of late, however, the flow of molten rock had increased to the point where the magma now lapped at the edges. A sure sign of increasing pressure, and further proof to Theron that he did not have much longer.

  In addition to the magma pool, the room had another unique feature. On the far side of the wall was a large, grated hole. Theron had cut this one as well, but it opened into a small, natural tunnel that eventually wound its way outside. He needed this access to outside air for his experiments, which often involved fire generated using molten stone from the pool and dead trees from the surrounding countryside.

  Tonight, the fire was already lit. Theron had set a pyre before leaving to fetch Galle, then spattered it with some of the magma from the pool. By the time they reached the room, there was a sizable bonfire burning in the chamber. The blaze cast the room in an eerie, orange glow, and only added to the oppressive, dry heat of the place.

  There were no furnishings in the room to speak of, yet along one wall stood a natural ledge of stone. It was here on this ledge that Theron kept the majority of his tools. Dozens of small bottles, all filled with blood, lined the ledge. They stood alongside a few thick books bound with human skin. The books were so old that the titles had long ago worn off their spines, but Theron knew all of them by rote. He’d gone through a great deal of trouble to acquire them. Books about blood magic were rare and quite valuable. Books about forbidden blood magic were rarer still. The Council would have him executed just for possessing several of them.

  “Put the body down,” he instructed.

  Galle did as she was told, then turned to face him.

  “Strip down,” he said.

  If she had any thoughts to resist him, she did not act on them. He’d taught her that lesson on their first night. She removed her threadbare clothes and stood, naked, in the glow of the magma. Theron had seen her naked before, of course, but on this occasion she seemed even more malnourished. Her skin hung from her bones like a sack around a bundle of twigs, and her limbs shook as with palsy. He would have to be more careful the next time he used his new psalm on her. Or perhaps not. If his experiment tonight worked, he could simply kill her and be done with it.

  That was his hope, anyway.

  “Come here,” he said.

  She obliged, having been through this before.

  Theron turned and grabbed several of the glass vials from the ledge. He pulled the stopper from the first and dipped his finger into its contents. Then he used the blood from the vial to trace arcane symbols on her bare skin.

  He continued that way for about an hour, carefully tracing symbols on Galle’s body in his own blood, which he had specifically enhanced for tonight’s experiment. It was not easy at first. Galle’s weakness caused her limbs to twitch and shake, and more than once he had to go back and correct a mistake. But by the time he finished, the twitching had stopped. She stood still as a statue. Her skin tone improved, and she even seemed to fill out her skin a little better.

  “How does that feel?” he asked.

  “Like I’m two days from death instead of one,” she replied.

  He took that to mean she felt stronger. He thought briefly about punishing her for being insolent, but he was too eager to begin. He would punish her later, if she lived.

  “Good,” he said. “Now, throw the body into the fire.”

  Galle’s expression faltered. “Must I?”

  “Unless you’d prefer to leave her outside for the animals to eat.”

  Her frown deepened, but she nodded. She walked over to the body of the girl and picked it up. It seemed to Theron that she picked it up much easier than she had on the way here. That was a good sign. His psalms had made her stronger.

  Galle carried the body to the edge of the fire, her steps slow but sure. She looked at the child’s face, and her grief and pain shone as easily as if Theron had painted them on her face himself. Which, he supposed, he had.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Then she tossed the child’s corpse into the blaze. It fell into the midst of the fire with a sizzle and a strange popping noise. The air of the small chamber, already hot and still, filled with smoke and the greasy, sickly sweet smell of burning flesh. Galle watched as the body blackened into cinders.

  “I’m so sorry,” she repeated.

  Theron, standing just behind her, reached out his hand and put it on her shoulder. She tensed and tri
ed to grab his hand, but she was too slow.

  Theron pushed her into the flames.

  ***

  Headcouncil Herris paced through his private chambers, waiting for Ramah to arrive. Herris had dispatched a Lost One to fetch him half an hour ago. It should not have taken this long for his Lead Enforcer and second in command to make his way here. It was not like Ramah to keep Herris waiting like this. The Lost One must have gotten lost or otherwise erred in his task. Herris stopped pacing and stared at his door, willing the knock to come. When it didn’t, he returned to his pacing, thinking dire thoughts about what he would do to the Lost One once it arrived with Ramah in tow.

  Ten minutes later the temperature in the room began to drop, revealing the approach of a Lost One. Herris stopped pacing and took a seat in a large, overstuffed chair in the center of the room just as a knock sounded at the door. He forced himself to calm down, willing his nerves to settle and his face to ease. It would not do to let the Lost One know of his unease.

  “Enter,” he said when he had his nerves under control.

  The door swung inward, allowing the Lost One to enter the room and step aside. The creature motioned to Ramah to enter. Ramah swept past the Lost One with neither a glance nor a word and came to stand in front of Herris.

  Ramah’s lower jaw and part of his shirt were red with shiny, wet blood.

  “What kept you?” Herris asked, though he already knew the answer.

  “Apologies, Headcouncil,” Ramah replied, bowing his head. “Upon returning to the Halls, I was badly in need of blood, so on the way to your chambers I stopped at The Larder.”

  Herris nodded. The Larder was the name for the cell in which the Council kept a number of humans for just such an occasion.

  “Your mission left you that drained, then?”

  Ramah nodded, but said nothing, as if the answer was obvious.

  Herris turned to the Lost One. “You may go,” he said. “Guard my chambers from the end of the hall. Do not return to your post outside my door until you are summoned.”

  The Lost One, forbidden to speak by Council Law, bowed and swept out of the room, trailing its rotting robes behind it. Ramah watched it go with a curious expression. Herris knew Ramah would not dare to ask about the unusual instructions in the presence of the Lost One, of course, but as soon as it was gone…