Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  Dear gods! Raphial thought. There are two of them?

  “It is far warmer than you deserve, after your betrayal,” Taras replied, releasing his hold on the branch and dropping to the ground. “A proper greeting would have been to kill you. I’m still considering it.”

  “Charming,” the female said. “Consider it all you like, but I would advise against the attempt.”

  “I am not afraid of you.”

  “Then you are as foolish as you are filthy.”

  “Perhaps,” Taras replied, “I simply do not care.”

  “If that were true, you would have taken a walk in the sunlight years ago,” the female said. “You value life, even this life. Do not pretend you don’t.”

  Taras’s frown deepened. “What do you want, Baella?”

  The creature called Baella looked up into the tree, her gaze finding Raphial, who had begun to hope he might be forgotten. No such luck. She spied him immediately, pinning him to the branch with her eyes. Raphial tried to turn his head and resume his climb, but he could not look away. He stared down at the two monsters below and a slight whimper began in his throat.

  “Why do you hunt these pathetic creatures?” Baella asked. “It seems an unnecessary inconvenience to search them out when there are so many others who would be easier prey.”

  “This man deserves my justice,” Taras replied. “Those you call ‘easier prey’ do not.”

  “Morality. An odd quality to find in our kind.”

  “I am not a monster.”

  “Yes, you are. You just refuse to admit it to yourself.”

  Taras shook his head and pointed toward Raphial. “Your words are like his actions: poisoned and not to be trusted. As you can see, I am busy. So I will ask again, what do you want, Baella? State your purpose and leave me to my meal.”

  Meal?

  In a blur of motion, Baella shot up the tree and grabbed Raphial’s ankle. He pulled against her grip, but found he could not break it. With a strength that belied her small frame, she yanked on his leg, dislodging him from his branch and sending him to the ground some twenty feet below. There was a bright flash of pain in his leg and the sound of cracking bones echoed through the woods. He cried out, wrapping his hands around his shin in a futile attempt to push the bones of his lower leg back together.

  “Here,” Baella said, landing lightly in the brush next to Raphial. “Eat. If your hunger is all that prevents you from being civil, then finish him so we can talk.”

  “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “On the contrary, we have a great deal to talk about.” She smiled. “Theron, for example.”

  Raphial barely heard them over the roaring pain in his leg. Despite it, a small part of him knew he needed to run or he would die. That part of him instructed his hands to grab a tree root and pull himself forward.

  “What do I care for Theron?” Taras asked, and the pain in Raphial’s leg flared again as the blond giant stepped on it, pinning him to the ground and causing him to swoon.

  “By your own words, you hunt these men,” she pointed at Raphial, “for justice as much as for blood. Theron deserves your justice as much as any of these men you hunt. Perhaps more.”

  Blood? The thought seared its way through Raphial’s fog of pain. Did she say he hunts for blood?

  “He is not my concern.”

  “But you had him in your grasp in Londinium,” she said. “You had him defeated and could have easily killed him. Why didn’t you?”

  Raphial whimpered again. Blood. Now he knew what these creatures were. There would be no escape. The Bachiyr were not known for mercy. A warm, wet sensation spread through his crotch, and he realized he’d wet himself. He didn’t care.

  “We had an agreement,” Taras growled. “I gave my word.”

  “Is your word worth the lives of children?” Baella said. “How many innocents was your promise meant to kill?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Spare me. By allowing him to live, you have stained your own hands with all the blood he has taken. Theron is a much bigger monster than this pitiful thing lying at your feet. Speaking of which, he is beginning to smell. Finish him and let us go. We have much to discuss.”

  Raphial closed his eyes. He did not want the sight of two Bachiyr bickering over when to kill him to be the last thing he ever saw. The Bachiyr! Here in Hispania! He began to pray, whispering the words through jaws clamped tight from the pain. Raphial laid still, heart thumping in his chest, and waited to die.

  It was not a long wait.

  ***

  “So what is it you wish to discuss?” Taras asked. He felt much better after having fed on the bandit. His choice to only devour those who truly deserved his ire often left him hungry for days, even weeks at a time. Before tonight, he had not fed in fourteen days and was starting to feel the effects of prolonged hunger.

  Baella looked around at their surroundings, then cast a doubtful eye his way. “This is where you live?”

  “One of the places,” Taras replied. He and Baella had gone to his current sanctuary: a shallow cave in the side of a rocky hill. Due to his feeding habits, Taras spent much of his time wandering the countryside in search of suitable prey, and he had several small hideaways tucked into the various hills and mountains of Hispania. They were all very much alike in that they were simple, sparse, and barely protected him from the deadly rays of the sun. Still, they served their purpose. He needed nothing more. “Why are you here?”

  “Theron is in Italy,” she said. “He is hiding away in a cave deep within the mountain known as Vesuvius.”

  “Why should this concern me?” Taras asked. “As I said, I am finished with Theron. He no longer has any hold over me.”

  Baella smiled. “You truly know very little of your history.”

  Taras shrugged. “It is not important.”

  “But it is. Where do you think your abilities come from?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You should. Your powers are a gift from a being the Bachiyr know as the Father.”

  “Why does this matter to me?” Taras asked.

  “The Father imbued his children with the power to convert blood into mystical energy. That is why we live even after our hearts stop beating. As you know, we can alter our bodies, adding muscle and bone and many other things we might need at any given moment. This is because of His ‘gift’”

  “I should thank him, then.”

  “So thinks the Council of Thirteen. I believe you are familiar with their work.”

  Taras frowned. “All too familiar.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “They are known for their ruthless tactics, even among their own kind. But they are far too powerful for anyone to oppose them. Openly, at least. But that is not the point. Do you know why they are so much more powerful than other Bachiyr?”

  Taras shook his head. What difference did it make?

  “In addition to their age and experience, they possess a more profound knowledge of blood manipulation than the rest of our race. To put it simply, they know how to use both aspects of the blood they take, whereas most Bachiyr only use one.”

  “Both aspects?”

  “Yes. You see, blood has a red side and a white side. The red side is what most Bachiyr use. The white side, though far more potent, is much smaller. Most members of our race do not even know of its existence. The practice of using both is often called “burning blood on both sides.” The Council of Thirteen have mastered it, which enables them to create effects and psalms undreamed of by most Bachiyr. They guard the secret like a mother bear guards her cubs, however.”

  “Both sides…” Taras nodded, interested despite himself, though he had to remind himself that it was Baella talking. She had already shown she could not be trusted. “Interesting.”

  “Indeed, and do you know how many Bachiyr in the world possess this ability?”

  “My guess would be very few.”

  “Exactly sixteen. For thousands of yea
rs, the Council of Thirteen and myself were the only ones who had mastered the art of using the white aspect.”

  “Who are the other two?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  When Taras shook his head again, she smiled.

  “Theron…and you.”

  “Me?” Taras asked. “Why? How?”

  “I have no idea.” Baella leaned against the stone wall of Taras’s makeshift sanctuary. “One could assume you learned it through lack of training.”

  “Explain.”

  “When Theron converted you, he did not stay long enough to teach you anything, did he?”

  Taras didn’t bother to reply. The answer was obvious.

  “Of course not,” Baella said, answering her own question. “Because of that, you were forced through necessity to learn how to utilize your new abilities on your own. Without a teaching hand to guide you, it’s not surprising you stumbled across the secret. Quite simply, you didn’t know what things you couldn’t do, and so you were able to do them.”

  She sauntered over to a half-rotten log at the far end of the cave and sat down, brushing the dust aside with her fingers and staring sadly at the crumbling wood.

  “You really should do something with this place, you know,” Baella said. “It’s unseemly for one so powerful to live so poorly.”

  Taras resisted the urge to throttle her. “I have been looking for a servant to clean. Perhaps you know one who is willing work for dust and bones?”

  Baella laughed. “Taras, you truly don’t realize just how much power you have, do you?”

  “I don’t care. I—”

  “You could have a fortress, if you wished. Filled with servants who catered to your every whim. You could even have people whose sole responsibility would be to bring you criminals and rapists on which to feed.” Baella winked. “Think about that. No more going hungry. No more hunting for weeks on end. Instead you can have your meals brought to you, and you would be doing justice in the process.”

  Taras didn’t care about having a fortress or servants, but he had to admit that it would be nice to not have to go weeks between feedings. “And how would I pay for all this?”

  “Simple,” she replied. “You would just give them some of your blood.”

  “Blood?”

  “Of course.”

  “Wouldn’t that make them like me?”

  “Not if you don’t bite them first.”

  Taras stared at her, searching for some sign that she was lying. Try as he might, her face was as unreadable as the stone on which he sat. “Tell me more.”

  Baella’s smile widened. Her sharp fangs gleamed white even in the dim light of Taras’s cave. “I will do better than that. I will show you,” she said. “But first I need you to come with me to Pompeii.”

  “Why?”

  “To kill Theron, of course.”

  Chapter Three

  The Streets of Pompeii

  Late evening

  JUST as she had every night for the past year, Caelina walked the cobbled streets of Pompeii’s northern section, searching for her lost son, Filo. She looked in every shadow, every doorway, and under every beam. She stepped boldly into each and every alley, calling her son’s name with no regard for caution or decorum, yet her manner was such that even the brigands in this part of the city left her alone. They knew better than to bother her. Caelina had a reputation in Pompeii for her temper and her handiness with a blade. That and her husband’s rank as a captain in the city guard made her an unattractive target to those who preferred easier prey.

  “Filo,” she called for what felt like the thousandth time. The only answer was a mournful gust of wind through the buildings, but the nights when she had expected him to reply had ended long ago. Still, she had to try. She didn’t know what else to do. He was out there, somewhere. She knew it. He could be hungry, or hurt. He could be sitting in a dark, scary place, wondering why his mother had not come to save him. He could be crying for her even now…

  Her vision blurred and she realized she had distracted herself from her search. It was hard not to imagine him sitting alone, cold and hungry, in some tiny room somewhere. But such thoughts tended to pull her mind inward, when she needed to focus it outward. She forced the image out of her head and moved on, wiping her eyes dry with her sleeve. It wouldn’t be safe to let the type of people who normally walked these alleys at night see her crying. They would take it as a sign of weakness.

  A slight tremble in the ground caused her to stop for a moment and take stock of her surroundings. The streets of Pompeii had experienced irregular tremors for as long as she could remember, but recently they had gotten stronger and more frequent. Nearly every scholarly mind in Pompeii agreed that Vesuvius would probably erupt in the not too distant future, but none of them could agree on how long it would be. Some said it would be years, some felt it would take decades, while others said it would be longer. The two things they all agreed on was that an eruption was coming, and that it was nothing to worry about. Vesuvius had never been known to erupt with anything more than a mild shake and a plume of smoke, they said. This time should prove no different.

  The tremor lasted for a count of sixty, then faded. Caelina nodded. Nothing to worry about.

  She walked through the city for another hour, peering into the shadows and calling Filo’s name into the alleys, ignoring the protests of the city’s undesirables when they objected to the interruption. Let them complain, she thought. They dare not touch me.

  The night would prove her confidence merited, it seemed. As the time dragged on with no sign of Filo, fewer and fewer of the city’s shadowy denizens voiced their displeasure. Indeed, the hour had grown so late that even those who operated during night’s cloaking darkness had gone to their beds, leaving Caelina to walk the dark streets of Pompeii alone.

  Several hours after midnight, she decided it was time to go home. Her husband would be coming home from his shift at the watch soon, and she wanted to be there to greet him. As always, he would ask how her search went, even though he had ceased to expect good news. The asking had become more of a ritual than an actual question. Still, maybe she needed rituals. Maybe they were all Caelina had left. She certainly didn’t have much of a marriage anymore.

  The tears began to creep back into her eyes, but they vanished when she felt a strong, calloused hand on her shoulder.

  “What do we have here?” said a rough, gravelly voice. A hard, sharp point dug slightly into the small of her back. A knife.

  “Take your hand off me,” Caelina growled.

  “Oh, I think I’ll just move it somewhere better,” the voice said. The hand on her shoulder slid down and forward, the dirty, unkempt fingernails making their way toward her breast.

  Caelina spun around, lowering her body and center of gravity while kicking out with her right leg. Her foot connected with her opponent’s shin and he went down with a surprised yelp. He was lucky she wore her sandals that day. If she’d been wearing her boots, his cry of pain would have been preceded by the sharp crack of a breaking bone. Before he had a chance to recover, Caelina sprang upright, yanking her short, broad blade from the sheath under her robe.

  She leveled the sword, holding the tip a narrow inch from the man’s throat. His eyes, wide as lemons, fixed on the blade, and his breathing grew rapid and uneven. Now that she had a chance to look at him, she could tell he was little more than a street thug. His black hair was thick with dirt and oil, and his red-rimmed eyes glittered with fear and surprise in the middle of his dirty, unshaven face. The smell of wine rolled off him like a noxious cloud.

  Behind him, two more men stood, staring at her in slack jawed wonder. Both of them were just as ragged and ratty as the first. One of them had the presence of mind to draw a blade, while the other simply stood and stared, probably stunned by how easily she had taken down their comrade.

  “Put that away,” she said, nodding to the man with the sword. “You don’t have to die tonight.”

&nbs
p; The man looked unsure, his eye flicking from her to his own sword. For a moment it looked like common sense would prevail.

  “What are you waiting for?” the man on the ground shouted, his confidence perhaps bolstered by the presence of allies. “Take her!”

  The man with the sword snarled a response and came forward, while the other man pulled out a small cudgel and did likewise.

  Caelina jabbed the sword point into the prone man’s throat, just deep enough to draw blood and make him wince. She glared down at him, making sure she had his attention.

  “The closer they come,” she said, “the harder I push.” She added a little more of her weight to the hilt, digging the blade in just a bit deeper.

  “Stop!” he shouted, his eyes watering.

  The two men stopped, both staring at their friend’s throat and the small line of blood running from her blade to the ground.

  “Back away,” she said. “Now.”

  The dirty pair didn’t move. Caelina was about to tell them one more time when a pair of thick, sweaty arms encircled her from behind and squeezed, trapping her arms at her sides. Surprised, she dropped her sword to the ground and tried to wriggle free, but she could not break her unseen assailant’s hold.

  The first man grabbed her sword and rose to his feet, smiling lewdly and leering at her chest. He reached out with one grubby hand and squeezed her right breast, licking his lips. With his other hand, he held her own sword to her throat.

  “You had your fun,” he said, his face split into a wide grin. “Now it is Boro’s turn, yes?”

  Behind him, the other two men had put away their weapons and were advancing, both wearing lascivious smiles almost identical to Boro’s. She heard a soft chuckle next to her ear, and felt the warm breath of the man holding her pinned on the back of her head. It reeked of ale and wine. She stared at Boro, watching as he traced his finger around the tip of her breast.

  “Remove your hand,” she warned, “or I will keep it.”

  Boro chuckled. “I will move it, certainly.” He gave her breast a final squeeze, then moved his hand down her body, toward her crotch.