Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  To make things worse, Vesuvius had gone from merely irritated to downright angry, kicking and screaming like a condemned man on his way to the gallows. Soon the mountain would explode, and then anything and everything around it—or in it—would perish under the weight of stone, ash, and molten rock. Not even a Bachiyr would survive such a fate. She needed another vial. Fast. But where could she get one?

  The cave shook again. From somewhere behind her came the sound of a muffled explosion, and a few moments later a draft of hot air rushed through the cave around her. It would not be long, now.

  Up ahead, she heard the sound of Ramah and Theron fighting. She could not see the battle, but from the sound of things, the fight was going poorly for Theron, just as she had known it would. She felt no pity. He was a fool to engage Ramah. He—

  Theron!

  Theron had several vials of blood on him. He used them to work his will on Galle and Taras. One of them would do nicely. If she could get it.

  She risked a quick peek around the corner. As she suspected, Theron was losing. Badly.

  Ramah had torn open the side of Theron’s face, and a stream of blood flowed from it to cover half his body. Theron’s left arm hung limp, and it seemed to her that it was bent in several places where it should not be. Theron’s clothes were ragged and torn, and they were soaked with blood, all of which seemed to be his, as Ramah did not appear to have a mark on him.

  Ramah’s back was to her, for which she was grateful. Theron, however, was facing her. He saw her and his eyes pleaded for help.

  She motioned behind her, mouthing the words leave him, and hurry.

  Theron nodded and tried to step around his foe, but a particularly violent surge of the floor sent him careening right into Ramah’s waiting embrace. Ramah used the opportunity to slam Theron against the wall, pinning him to the stone with his greater strength.

  “I have been waiting for this for a long time,” Ramah growled, and jabbed a clawed fist into Theron’s belly. The claws sunk in up to Ramah’s knuckles, and a spray of blood spurted from the wound, which would have been grievously mortal to a human. Not so for Bachiyr, of course, but still quite painful. Theron screamed and his eyes rolled back into his head. This was no good. She needed him. Well, she needed one of his vials. She would have to intervene.

  She forced the claw on her left index finger to grow, then drew it across her wrist, opening a vein. She then retracted the claw and dipped her finger into the blood, using it to trace a symbol on the palm of her right hand. She brought the symbol to her face, just in front of her mouth.

  “Yashen,” she whispered.

  The symbol began to glow with a faint bluish light.

  Perfect, she thought. The effects of the psalm would not last long, but they would last long enough.

  Baella stepped lightly around the corner, heading for Ramah’s back.

  ***

  Theron’s vision was fading fast, drowned out by the pain, which seemed to come from every corner of his body at once. Ramah’s fist turned and twisted, churning the flesh of Theron’s belly like a baker mixing flour. The pain was excruciating, but at least it was beginning to fade. Theron knew what that meant.

  I am dying, he thought.

  He saw the stone cavern falling down around them, and he was at least thankful that Ramah would not be able to take his time. The Blood Letter would have to kill him quickly just to make sure he got out before Vesuvius erupted. That meant his pain would be over soon. After nearly a thousand years on this earth, Theron would soon be no more. The thought did not frighten him as much as he had thought it would.

  He would rather die here in this cave than go back to the Halls to become a Lost One, which is what that bastard Herris wanted. He supposed he should be grateful for Ramah’s blood lust, as it would save him from a thousand years of torment.

  He opened his eyes one last time, wondering where Baella had gone. Probably already fled, he thought. He was considerably surprised, however, to see her approaching Ramah’s back. Her right hand glowed a faint blue. She saw Theron looking at her and raised a finger to her lips, shaking her head slightly.

  Quiet, he thought to himself. Don’t give her away.

  Baella snuck up behind Ramah, who was still twisting his clawed fist into Theron’s gut. She raised her blue hand, palm out, and brought it down hard on the back of Ramah’s head.

  The effect was immediate. Ramah’s eyes rolled up into his skull and he slumped. His claws pulled out of Theron’s belly as he fell to the floor in a heap, dripping blood and gore in a small arc on the floor. Theron, dazed and in pain, fell to his hands and knees next to the prone Blood Letter.

  He looked at Ramah, one of the most powerful Bachiyr who had ever lived, lying in a heap on the stone floor. Then looked up at Baella, who was eyeing him with open impatience. She had felled him, completely and utterly, with a single touch.

  How in the name of the gods did she do that? Theron thought.

  The floor bucked beneath him, sending him to his knees.

  Explanations could wait.

  “Quick,” Baella said. “I need blood.”

  Theron laughed and coughed up a wad of blood and spittle. “Me too,” he said.

  “No, in a vial,” she said. “I need vials of blood to open the portal. Give me what you have! Hurry!”

  Theron hesitated, then reached into his pocket. He had one last vial of Galle’s blood. He’d been planning to take more when she fed on the child, but the eruption of Vesuvius and the arrival of Ramah into his caves prevented him from doing so. If the bitch had even fed yet. Like as not, Galle and the girl were already dead, crushed under the weight of Vesuvius’s anger.

  He handed the vial to Baella, who took it eagerly, then held out her hand. Theron thought she meant to help him to his feet, and he reached up to take her hand.

  Baella slapped it away. “Damn it,” she said. “I don’t need your hand, I need another vial!”

  “I only have one,” Theron replied as he put his feet under him and tried to rise.

  Baella grabbed him by his torn shirt and picked him up, bringing his face close to hers. Damn, she was stronger than she looked. He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, all Bachiyr are strong, but still, she seemed strong even by the standards of their powerful race.

  “Just one?” she asked. “Are you certain? You don’t have another one tucked into your pockets somewhere?”

  “I only have one vial left,” he said. “I never got the chance to collect more.” He wrapped his good hand around her wrist and tried to pry her hand off him, but he could not move it.

  Baella looked at him, then her eyes fell to Ramah, lying prone on the floor.

  “You truly don’t have another vial?” she asked. Was it his imagination, or did her voice crack when she asked the question.

  “No,” he said, irritated. “Now let go of me so we can get out of here.”

  Baella slammed him into the wall, cracking his head against the stone with such force that all thought was driven from his mind in a white-hot flash of pain. Dazed, he felt himself flying through the cavern. He landed hard on his back, and the sound of snapping vertebrae echoed through the cavern, mixing with the constant rumble of Vesuvius. He lifted his head from the floor and saw Baella drawing on the walls a short distance away.

  “What?” he gasped, struggling to speak through the haze of pain. “Why?”

  “One vial, one transport,” she replied. “I need at least two vials to open a portal for two people.”

  Theron stared at her, willing his body to move, but he could not make his limbs obey his commands. “Damn you, bitch,” he spat.

  “It’s not my fault you only had one,” she replied as she finished the symbols. She threw the vial at the wall. It shattered against the stone, splattering the symbols with the rest of its contents. The wall around the symbols began to shimmer. “In any case, you should not be surprised. You were planning to betray me the moment you reached my home.”

 
; “I was n—”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence, Theron,” she said. “Your intentions were as plain as the nose on your face.”

  Theron thought to deny it again, but didn’t see the point.

  “If it’s any consolation,” she continued, “I wouldn’t have used the second vial for you, anyway. I needed it for him.” She inclined her head toward Ramah.

  “Ramah?” Theron asked. “Why?”

  Baella shook her head. “Ask him. He should be waking up soon. I’m sure you two will have plenty to talk about in the few seconds before he kills you.”

  “I will come for you, Baella,” Theron warned, his anger seething. “I will find you, and I will kill you.”

  “Good luck,” she said, and moved toward the portal.

  Just then, Ramah began to groan.

  ***

  Baella heard Ramah’s groan and stopped, her hand on the edge of the portal. She shouldn’t do this. She should just leave, now, while she had time. But she couldn’t. She pictured him as he was, lying unconscious on the stone, and she could not walk away. Damn Theron for only having one vial! She sighed, then turned around.

  One last look, she told herself. Then I will go.

  Ramah sat up, shaking his head back and forth.

  Go now, she thought. Leave! Before it’s too late!

  But why? So what if he saw her? Maybe her fears would prove unfounded. Maybe things would go better than she anticipated. Maybe Herris was more of a liar than she suspected, and she’d spent the last four thousand years worried over nothing. Maybe…she shook her head at her own questions. There was only one way to find out.

  Ramah opened his eyes. He scanned his surroundings, clearly trying to remember where he was. The psalm she had used to render him unconscious often had that effect on its victims. It could be disorienting at first.

  Go! Now!

  She stayed, holding on to the edge of the portal.

  Ramah’s eyes found her at last.

  Too late now, she thought.

  Ramah’s eyes blinked, then narrowed. His face darkened, seeming to sink deeper into the gloom of the cave. His hands curled into fists at his side and the red glow of his eyes intensified, cutting through the clouds of sifting dust and falling debris with an eerie, angry clarity.

  “You!” he shouted, his anger hot and deadly, even from this distance.

  Baella swore. She’d hoped the anger would be gone by now, but it was stronger than ever, to judge by the look on his face. Fighting back the urge to go to him, she leapt through the portal, leaving Ramah’s angry shouts and curses behind. When she was through, the portal closed behind her, and she was back in her private chambers.

  “Damn Herris,” she said. “Damn him to the Abyss and back, the bastard!”

  Red tears coursed down her cheeks.

  ***

  “NO!” Ramah bellowed. “No! You can’t get away that easy!” He lurched forward, dodging through falling rocks and tripping over stones that lay on the ground, finally making his way to the spot where the portal had stood. He banged on the stone with his fist, taking a chunk from the wall but failing to do anything productive.

  “No!” he screamed again. His rage made the gray stone look red, and he pounded on it again. He’d lost her. Damn everything and the Father! He’d lost her! After all these millennia, to see her again, and have her run off like a frightened rabbit.

  “No!” he screamed a third time. He looked at the wall, and noted again that the stone appeared red, but it was not his rage that made it so. He’d cut open his hands on the rock. The red on the stone was his own blood.

  He punched the wall again, and this time the rock gave beneath his fist. Ramah smiled in satisfaction, not because he thought he was getting anywhere, but because at least his fist was having an effect on something. Then, an odd thing happened; an intense, hot pain flared in his knuckles. He withdrew his hand and looked, surprised to see that the flesh was burned and blackened, and even more surprised to note that it was still aflame.

  As Ramah batted the fire out on his thigh, he saw the reason. A thin, smoking stream of magma flowed from the hole in the wall. He’d punched into a vein of the stuff.

  Worse, the hole was growing, and the cavern was beginning to fill with white hot, glowing molten rock.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  He stared at the wall, willing her face to appear over the crack, but all he got for his efforts was a burn on his foot as the magma reached his boot. He could not stay here.

  Ramah shouted a curse at the stone ceiling. He hoped that wherever she was she heard it and felt his anger, which boiled in him, hotter than the pool of molten stone at his feet.

  Where had she gone? How was she even still alive? Did Herris know she was not dead? Did anyone else know?

  Ramah’s head swam with questions, and he had no answers for any of them.

  But maybe he knew someone who did.

  Ramah turned toward the prone form of Theron, who lay on the ground in a ruined, broken heap. He was not dead. Not yet. Good. Ramah had been about to kill him when…when…when what, exactly? The last thing he remembered before blacking out was gutting Theron with his claws, then everything went blank.

  Her doing, no doubt.

  But she had erred. She should have let him kill Theron first. Now, at least, Ramah had someone to interrogate. Even in his anger, Ramah’s face split into a smile. Before he finished with Theron, the renegade would be all too eager to tell him anything he wanted to know.

  Ramah scooped up the prone Bachiyr and sprinted down the passage, dodging rocks and pools of molten stone on the way to the exit.

  ***

  Caelina and Nona stared at the chaos and devastation around the mountain. Vesuvius shook and bellowed like a live thing, spewing great clouds of ash and dust into the night sky, along with an uncountable number of large rocks that flattened trees when they crashed back to earth. In the distance, the city of Pompeii glowed with the light from fires too numerous to count, though the view was somewhat obscured by an entire mountain’s worth of falling ash. Fires raged through the countryside, eating everything in their path, and stretched all the way to Pompeii and beyond. What would happen to the people who lived there? Where would they take refuge? How many would even live through the night?

  She thought about Gareth.

  Maybe I‘ll just stay gone, then! She remembered the words. Almost her last words to him, spoken on her way out the door. He didn’t deserve them. He was trying to help her. He’d been trying to help for over a year, and she chose not to see it. She had thought he didn’t care, that he didn’t miss Filo. She had even run into the arms of another man for comfort, a man that turned out not to care about Filo, either. More than that, it was possible Jarek was even responsible for Filo’s disappearance. He’d been funneling children to Theron for several years now in exchange for blood. Had Filo been one of them?

  She would probably never know.

  And she had betrayed the one person who loved her more than any other.

  I have been so selfish, she thought. I lost my son, but Gareth lost both of us, and I never even realized it.

  A whimper to her right reminded her that she could not afford to wallow in her grief. Another life depended on her to think quickly. She clasped Nona’s hand in her own and got down on her knees, putting her face to face with the whimpering child.

  “Listen to me, Nona,” she said. “We cannot stay here. The mountain will kill us for sure. We have to get down and find someplace sheltered. I know where there is a small hollow near the volcano’s base. It should protect us from falling rocks, and since it is not deep it should be safe from collapse, as well. We might be safe there, if we can be safe anywhere, but first we have to reach it. That means we have to run down the mountain. Do you understand?”

  Nona nodded, then she wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.

  “I’m ready,” the girl said.

  Caelina smiled. She is brave for o
ne so small. She remembered the sight of her knife in Jarek’s back, and the girl standing in front of him holding nothing more than a stone for a weapon. She would make a fine fighter some day, provided they lived through the night, which seemed more and more doubtful with each passing second.

  “Let’s go,” Caelina said.

  Hand in hand, the two ran down the mountain. The going was hard. The land itself seemed to rise up and try to stop them. They dodged around fallen stones as big as black bears, dove out of the way of huge rolling boulders the size of houses, skirted several streams of glowing molten rock, and even fell into a sinkhole that appeared, without warning, underneath their feet.

  Through it all, Nona never complained. She kept up with Caelina, sweating and breathing as heavily as a dying ox, but she did not lag behind. Not even once. When Caelina fell into the sinkhole, it was Nona who threw her a branch and braced it against a massive rock, giving her the leverage she needed to pull herself out. For that alone, Caelina owed the child her life.

  Behind them, Vesuvius continued to roar, spitting fire and ash into the gray, dusky sky. It was night, but the moon and stars were obscured by the noxious clouds of toxic gases and the constant rise of blackened, choking ash into the air. They were not completely blinded, as the mountain’s anger glowed bright reddish orange, bathing the area around it with a surreal hue that made vision possible, if only barely.

  Caelina hoped she was right about the depression. She said a quick prayer to the gods, asking them to please let it still be there. If it wasn’t, they would have to run into the woods, and Caelina doubted they would live very long out there. Fire, smoke, ash, or even a panicked animal would claim them eventually. Their best chance lay in that shallow, partially hidden alcove.

  Please…just let it still be there.