Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  Caelina kicked upward, hard, connecting solidly with Boro’s groin. His eyes rolled upward and he fell to the ground, clutching his genitals and whimpering in pain. Before the man behind her could react, she slammed her head backward, connecting soundly on his nose. The satisfying crunch of bone and the warm spray of liquid on the back of her neck told her she’d scored a solid hit. The man’s arms loosened just enough for her to break free, jumping to the side just as the other two men arrived to support their friends.

  Caelina rolled to the side and stood, turning to face the men with her weight balanced evenly on both feet and her arms ready. Her weapon lay in the street next to the whimpering Boro, but she had other means of defending herself.

  She faced off against the three men. One of them, a stocky Persian, glared at her from behind a mask of blood. She’d broken his nose. All three pulled their weapons. The Persian’s sword was very similar to her own, probably stolen from a city guardsman.

  “If you are going to attack me,” she taunted, “do it. The sooner I kill you the sooner I can go home and go to bed.”

  The man with the cudgel charged. His actions apparently gave his two friends the impetus they needed to follow suit, and in seconds all three of them closed on her.

  She stepped to the side as the cudgel-bearer swung, dodging the blow and planting her foot squarely into his solar plexus. She reached over and grabbed the weapon from his twitching fingers as he fell to the street, gasping for breath. She used it to club him on the back of the head while he fell. The loud crack as the blunt weapon connected to his skull ensured that he would not rise to rejoin the attack anytime soon.

  Next came the Persian, who swung his sword in a wide arc. The blade never got near her as she ducked under the powerful but clumsy blow and swung the cudgel hard into the man’s left kneecap. There was another loud crack, followed by a scream of pain, and the Persian crumbled to the street, whimpering and clutching his ruined knee.

  Both attacks had taken only a pair of seconds. While the Persian squirmed on the cobbles, she tossed the cudgel aside and picked up his sword, noting that it had, indeed, come from the city guard armory. She rolled to the side and stood to face her last attacker. She squared her body with his and held the short, thick blade at the ready.

  The man stared at her, then his eyes flicked to his three prone comrades.

  He dropped his sword in the street and ran.

  “Apparently not all of you are stupid,” she said to his retreating back.

  Caelina tucked the city guard sword into her belt and walked over to the Persian, who was rolling in the street with his hands on his crushed kneecap. That leg would never work properly again, she knew. She did not feel the least bit sorry. The sword in her belt had come from a city guard like her husband, and there was only one way a rogue like this could get one. She pulled the sword from her belt and held it in front of his face.

  “Who did you kill for this, Persian?” she asked.

  The Persian said something in a language she did not understand, but she caught his meaning well enough when he spat at her. The bloody wad of spittle hit her on the cheek.

  Without a word, Caelina turned the blade toward the Persian and drove it deep into the man’s ribcage, skewering him to the street. His frame tensed, and his eyes clenched in pain, but it only lasted a moment. Soon the muscles relaxed, and she pulled the sword out of the corpse. He lay in the dirty street amidst a spreading pool of his own blood, dying like a stray dog. She could not help but wonder if the guardsman from whom he’d stolen the sword died in a similar manner.

  She wiped the spit from her cheek, then turned to face Boro.

  Boro was just getting to his feet, still gingerly holding his crotch. He stared at her, shaking. A wet stain spread over the front of his ratty pants. Caelina noticed it and couldn’t help but smile. She held the sword out in front of her, watching as several drops of the Persian’s blood dripped from the blade to patter in the street. Boro tensed. He looked ready to flee.

  “If you run, I will kill you,” she promised. “Do you understand?”

  Boro swallowed, then nodded.

  “Pick up my sword.”

  Boro hesitated, his expression unsure.

  “Pick it up!” she shouted, jabbing the bloody guardsman’s sword at him, causing several more droplets of blood to come loose and splatter to the cobbles.

  Boro picked up her sword.

  “Bring it to me.”

  Boro brought the sword to her, stopping several paces away, and held the sword out to her, hilt first.

  “Lay it at my feet,” she commanded.

  Boro looked at her. Sweat dripped down his forehead. He looked nervously to the side, probably weighing the value of turning and running.

  “Do it now,” she said. “I will not say it again.”

  Boro knelt in front of her, laying her blade in the street several inches from her sandaled feet. When his arm was fully extended, she swung downward, catching his arm at the wrist and severing the hand that held her blade. It was the same hand he’d used to squeeze her breast.

  Boro yelped in pain and brought his injured hand to his chest. With his good hand, he reached out to pick up the one she’d removed, which lay twitching in a small bloody puddle.

  “Leave it,” she said, leveling the blade at his face. “It belongs to me now.”

  Boro looked up, pain and confusion in his eyes.

  “I told you I would keep it if you did not remove it from my chest,” she said simply. “Promise made, promise kept. Now go, before I do worse.” She glanced at his crotch, soaked with his own urine. “And change your pants. You smell bad enough already.”

  Boro blanched, then stood and ran, squeezing his good hand around his bleeding stump in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

  Caelina picked up her sword and dropped it into her sheath. Then she took the guardsman’s sword and cleaned it on the Persian’s trousers. The other man, the one she’d hit with the club, began to moan and stir. She thought about running him through, but decided against it. Let him wake up and see the dead Persian and the severed hand in the street. He would take the story back to whatever rat’s warren he’d come from. Once word of this got out, the brigands of Pompeii would be even more wary of disturbing her.

  She tucked the guardsman’s sword back into her belt and turned away, leaving the bloody hand in the street for whatever animals might find it, and headed for the guard house. She would need to return the recovered sword and report to location of the dead Persian so that the body could be removed and burned properly. They would be able to tell who the sword belonged to by the number stamped into the crossbar.

  While she was there, she would pay a visit to her husband.

  He would not be pleased when he saw the blood on her clothes and learned that she’d fought four bandits, but they had given her little choice.

  She sighed as she imagined the irritated look he would get when she told him. It had become far too common an expression on his once jovial face. As little as a year and a half ago, he would have been proud of her for successfully fighting off four armed men. But ever since Filo disappeared, things had changed between them. They never held hands anymore, and barely spoke to each other. They had not made love in over a year, and truth be told, neither of them seemed to miss it. Their love, once hot and bright, had cooled. Often, it felt as if she were sharing a home with a cold, marble statue. Nothing, it seemed, could warm it again.

  But she understood. It was all about Filo, and her search for him. Gareth had told her that she was wasting her time, that Filo was gone and she should accept it. But she couldn’t, and so she spent her nights away from home, searching for her son, and Gareth grew more and more distant and angry with each passing night.

  His anger did not worry her. Gareth was not a man prone to violence. Still, she shuddered to think what he would do if he ever found out where she truly went some nights.

  A year was a long time to go without lov
e.

  Chapter Four

  “STOP blubbering, Boro,” said the man in the uniform. “Tell me what happened.”

  “We followed her, just like you said,” Boro replied. “But we were not successful.”

  “You let her beat you? Four hardened men?”

  “We did not let her do anything. She did what she wanted. She is a demon, that woman.”

  “Pah! She is just a woman. And you are supposed to be men.”

  “If she is so weak, why did you not kill her yourself?”

  “Perhaps I should have,” the man said, rubbing his chin. “Rather than sending children to do a man’s work. Still, it would not do to be seen. People would recognize me, or at least they would recognize the uniform, which would lead to me eventually.”

  “That is not my problem,” Boro said.

  “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

  “Now, what about my hand?” Boro asked.

  “What about it?”

  “You know I cannot work like this. This is going to cost you.”

  “I told you to kill her. I never told you to fondle her.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t bother denying it, Boro,” the man interrupted. “I know you too well. Caelina’s breasts proved far too nice for you to resist, did they not?”

  “Maybe,” Boro admitted.

  “Then your lost hand is your own fault and your own problem. In any case, you failed. I owe you nothing.”

  Boro’s good hand snaked down to his waist, and the knife was out before the uniformed man could react. “I don’t think so,” Boro said. “She didn’t cut off my fighting hand. You sent us on a suicide mission. I am beginning to wonder who it was that you wanted dead, me or the woman. You will pay me, Jarek, make no mistake about that.”

  Jarek’s eyes fixed on the blade at his chest. His lips curled into a smile. “Is that so?”

  “Blood or gold, Jarek,” Boro said. “You choose.” He jabbed the tip of the knife into Jarek’s chest to emphasize his point.

  “Very well,” Jarek said, reaching for his purse. He pulled a small bag from it and held it out to Boro. The bag clinked with the sound of coins. Boro smiled and reached for it with his stump, then realized what he was doing. How could he grab the bag and maintain his hold on the knife? He thought for a moment, trying to determine the best way to collect his pay.

  In that moment, Jarek’s arm flashed. Impossibly fast, the guardsman’s arm swept out wide, knocking Boro’s hand aside and sending his knife clattering to the street. Before Boro could speak a word of protest, he felt himself being lifted up by the scruff of his tunic and shoved bodily against the stone wall behind him. The pressure on his chest was immense, and he could scarcely breathe.

  “What is this?” he croaked. Then his voice dried up as he realized Jarek was only using one hand to lift him and hold him against the wall. The other hand held the guardsman’s blade, the tip already poking into Boro’s belly.

  “Blood or gold. Those were my two choices, as I recall.” Jarek smiled. “

  “I…I—”

  “Very well, I choose blood.”

  Boro felt a flash of searing pain. It began in his belly, then continued up into his chest. He tried to scream, but no air would come. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth, and he realized that Jarek had run him through, puncturing a lung in the process.

  “It is fortunate for you that I cannot allow you to die slowly,” Jarek said, grinning. “But I can’t risk you living long enough to talk to anyone. Still, I will enjoy the next five minutes, watching as your lungs fill with blood and you slowly drown in it.” Jarek’s arm jerked, and the pain in Boro’s belly flared bright. “If you make it five minutes,” Jarek added.

  ***

  Ramah entered the city of Pompeii from the north, scanning the streets for any sign of Theron. Herris’s report said Theron had made his home on the mountain, but Ramah could spend a century climbing up and down the slopes of Vesuvius looking for Theron’s cave and have nothing to show for it. Far better to begin his search in the nearest human settlement.

  Pompeii.

  This is where he comes to feed, Ramah thought. This is where I will catch him.

  Herris had urged him to bring a Lost One along to guard his sleep, but Ramah refused. He disliked dealing with the Lost Ones, and preferred to see to his own security whenever possible. In any case, a Lost One walking through a city the size of Pompeii would attract a great deal of attention, even at night. Anyone who saw it would immediately know it was not human, or even living. Ramah would much prefer to sneak into the city undetected. Having a Lost One along would eliminate that possibility.

  The Lost Ones, Bachiyr who’d been punished by the Council of Thirteen, wandered the Halls of the Bachiyr, servants to those who dwelt within its stone chambers. The psalm used to punish them stripped the victims of the magic used to keep their bodies preserved. As a result, their flesh rotted away, bit by bit, until tiny pieces of them littered the floor wherever they walked. The decaying tissue attracted all manner of flies and insects, who would lay their eggs under the Lost Ones’ gray skin. The larvae emerged a short time later and immediately began a lifetime feast of the dead flesh. The curse of the Lost Ones ensured that the creatures would never run out of muscle or tissue, therefore providing untold generations of insect larvae with sustenance.

  Years ago, Theron had been sentenced to spend a century as a Lost One for his failure in Jerusalem. Rather than face his punishment with honor, Theron ran. When Ramah caught him—and Ramah would catch him, make no mistake about that—Theron’s fate would be much worse. If he survived Ramah’s ire, the renegade would spend no less than a thousand years serving the Bachiyr as a Lost One. More, if Herris was in an especially foul mood that day.

  Of course, Theron would first have to live through his encounter with Ramah. After years spent in pursuit, Ramah was not certain he would be able to hold his frustration at bay once he finally found the renegade again. Not that it mattered. Dead or Lost, Theron was doomed.

  Ramah’s first order of business in Pompeii was to locate a suitable place to wait out the daylight hours. A typical inn would not do, as the innkeeper or his staff might intrude on him while he slept. To Ramah’s knowledge, the Council did not have a safe house in Pompeii, so he was on his own. Ideally, he would locate an abandoned building with a cellar. Barring that, he would have to retreat to Vesuvius and look for a hole in the mountain deep enough to accommodate him.

  He wandered through the city for several hours, crossing the streets on raised stones to avoid the runnels of human waste left behind by Pompeii’s open and wretchedly inefficient sewer system. According to his most recent information, officials in the city were planning to make improvements to Pompeii’s plumbing and sewers, but they had not yet begun. He wondered what they had planned. Would they build a complex system of aqueducts as they did in Rome? Or would it be something else? Not that it mattered. Anything would be better than having human waste running down the side of the street, in Ramah’s opinion. If nothing else, it would certainly make the city smell better.

  He turned a corner and stopped, sniffing at the night air. Buried within the smells of offal, sweat, and the sour tang of ale, Ramah detected a much more pleasant aroma. One with which he’d become intimately familiar over the last four thousand years.

  Blood.

  Freshly spilled. Still warm enough to excite his senses.

  He turned up the street and followed the smell, tracing it to a dark alley in the northern section of the city. There was very little light, but Ramah did not need much. Inside the alley were two men. One of the men clutched his wrist, which pumped blood into a rag he’d used to wrap the wound. So that’s where the smell came from, Ramah thought. The other man stood off to the side, almost as if wanting to put as much distance between himself and the wounded man as possible. This second man wore a uniform of some kind, possibly military. Ramah couldn’t tell for certain. The two were in the midd
le of a conversation, and Ramah paused a moment to listen in.

  He caught the very end of the exchange, listening as the smaller man, whose name was apparently Boro, demanded payment of the larger one in the uniform. Ramah was just about to rush in and kill them both when the uniformed man—Boro called him Jarek—lifted Boro off the ground with one hand and slammed him into the wall behind him.

  Ramah hung back, curious. The soldier seemed far too strong to be human, but even at this distance, Ramah could clearly hear Jarek’s heartbeat. Boro’s heart thumped rapidly in his chest as he tried vainly to break free. Then Jarek stabbed him through the belly, angling the blade up into the other man’s chest. The soldier continued to hold Boro against the wall with one arm while Ramah watched, hidden in the shadows. Boro’s heartbeat slowed, then eventually stopped altogether, the smaller man having drowned in his own blood.

  Ramah admired the casual, easy way Jarek tossed Boro’s corpse aside as though it weighed as little as a child’s toy. His initial assessment was correct. This Jarek was far too strong to be an ordinary human.

  There was only one thing Ramah knew of that would grant a human such strength. Bachiyr blood. Some Bachiyr kept human servants, feeding them blood at regular intervals to keep them strong and loyal. The rebel Baella was rumored to keep large numbers of humans in thrall. As long as the Bachiyr never fed on the humans everything would be fine. It was the exchange of blood that created new Bachiyr. Avoid that, and you would have a servant willing do almost anything to maintain their newfound strength and agility.

  So…this Jarek must have a Bachiyr friend somewhere nearby.

  Perhaps Ramah was closer to Theron than he’d realized.

  Ramah forced his hunger to recede—which was not easy with the sharp tang of fresh blood hanging in the air—and waited. Jarek cleaned his blade on Boro’s clothes, sneered one final time at the corpse, and walked out of the alley. Ramah followed.