Bachiyr Omnibus

by David McAfee

  Still, Ramah didn’t trust that it was not an act and kept a close watch on Theron the rest of the way to the portal.

  Once they arrive in Neapolis, Ramah made certain to walk only one step behind Theron, just in case. Sure enough, just as they approached the small house that served as the gateway in Neapolis, Theron tried to bolt. Ramah, stronger and faster, was able to grab Theron’s coat and yank him backwards. He then threw the struggling renegade through the wooden door that led to the inside of the Gatehouse, which startled the Bachiyr clerk who was stationed there.

  Despite the brewing commotion outside as a crowd of people gathered to see what was happening, Ramah shoved Theron through the portal.

  Let the clerk deal with the humans and the door, Ramah thought as he pushed Theron down a dark hallway. That is his job.

  Herris would be irritated, of course, but Ramah didn’t care.

  He, the Blood Letter, had brought back the second most hunted renegade in Bachiyr history. As usual, Ramah succeeded where everyone else had failed. Even better, if his suspicions proved correct, he now had a solid lead on the most hunted renegade in Bachiyr history, if the Bachiyr he saw was indeed the one the rest of his race knew as Baella. Of course, Ramah knew her by another name, but he doubted many of his people knew that.

  He still couldn’t believe what he’d seen. How could she still be alive? And a Bachiyr, no less? What trick was this? He would ask Herris first. All things pertaining to the Bachiyr began and ended with the Headcouncil. If anyone knew what was happening, it would be him. But if Herris knew something, why had he never told Ramah? There had to be a reason, and Ramah meant to have it out of the Headcouncil before sunrise, but he was not looking forward to the encounter.

  Ramah would get more information from Theron, as well, once the renegade was properly secured in the Hall’s dungeons. That should prove more entertaining—and safer—than his upcoming conversation with Herris. Ramah turned his mind to his coming interrogation as he steered Theron toward the dark cells of the Lost Ones.

  The familiar darkness of the Halls seeped into Ramah’s bones, lending him a measure of comfort. This place was his home, his sanctuary. He felt more powerful here than anywhere else in the world. Truth be told, this was the same for most Bachiyr who visited. The sun never touched the Halls, and the power of his race had soaked into the stone for thousands of years. It was difficult not to feel it as he walked through the darkness.

  Even Theron, he noted, seemed to walk a bit straighter. Ramah was just trying to decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing when everything went dark.

  ***

  Theron heard a noise behind him and turned to see…nothing.

  The Halls behind him were dark. Truly dark, even to his Bachiyr eyesight. The kind of darkness that could only be the result of a psalm. Why would Ramah cast a Psalm of darkness? Especially here in the Halls?

  From the inky blackness, he heard the distinct sound of a body hitting the floor.

  What is happening?

  It didn’t matter. Theron had been waiting for just such a chance. His last ditch effort in Neapolis had proven futile, but he intended to make the most of this new opportunity. He turned and sprinted down the hall, running away from Ramah and whatever had cast the area into darkness.

  Theron had lived in the Halls for nearly a thousand years. He knew every hole, cranny, and hiding place. He also knew every exit, and the portal to Rome was only a short distance away in another hall. He would have to dispatch the Roman clerk, of course, but that should be no trouble. It would even provide him with some much needed blood.

  Theron sprinted through the darkness, reveling in the inherent power of the Halls of the Bachiyr. He had forgotten how wonderful a place it was. He wished he could take more time to bask in their comforting darkness, but something had ambushed Ramah. If Ramah was not safe in the Halls of the Bachiyr, then Theron had no chance of survival. Escape was his only option.

  Theron ran through the stone passageways, not bothering to check his position. He knew where he was. Up ahead was an intersection. A right turn would take him deeper into the Halls, while a left would take him to the Roman portal. Theron ran down the hall and turned the corner, sensing his salvation was at hand.

  Then he stopped, his hopes crushed by the figure standing in front of him.

  Headcouncil Herris, the most powerful Bachiyr who had ever lived. Theron should have known it would be him. Who else could have taken out Ramah so easily?

  “Interesting,” Theron said, trying to hide his fear. “Why would the Headcouncil need to ambush his second in command?”

  “That is not your concern, Theron of Macedonia,” Herris replied.

  Theron shrugged. Further prodding would prove useless, he knew. Herris would never tell him anything that the Headcouncil did not want him to know. Theron readied himself to fight. He had no chance, of course. The best he could hope for was a quick death, which would be far better than what awaited him at Ramah’s hands.

  Herris smiled, revealing his canines, and started to chuckle.

  Theron was about to ask him what was so funny when he felt a sudden drop in temperature. He knew what that meant, and he whirled around just in time to see two Lost Ones behind him, their grub-covered arms outstretched. Reaching for him.

  “No!” Theron shouted. He tried to back away from the things, but a strong pair of hands grabbed his shoulders and held him in place. Herris.

  The Lost Ones approached. Their tattered gray flesh clung to their exposed bones, while all manner of insect larvae squirmed and writhed through their remaining skin. This was the fate he had hoped to avoid. This was why he’d run from the Bachiyr after his failure in Jerusalem.

  “I told you,” Herris said behind him, “that you would serve a hundred years as a Lost One if you turned yourself in, and a thousand if you ran.” The Lost Ones reached him, wrapping their thin, bony fingers around his wrists. Theron tried to pull away, but the Lost Ones were strong, far too strong for the amount of muscle still clinging to their bones. The magic of the Father had made them that way.

  “You ran,” Herris noted. “Thus, your sentence begins.”

  Theron screamed again as he watched the flesh around his wrists turn gray.

  Chapter Seventeen

  RAMAH woke to find himself in his own private chambers with a pounding headache. He felt dizzy and queasy, and his memory of how he arrived back in the Halls was foggy at best. The last thing he recalled was traveling to Pompeii in search of Theron. He remembered arriving in the city and encountering Taras, but nothing after that. Had he fought Taras? Had the tall Roman renegade somehow defeated him? It didn’t seem likely.

  He sat up and immediately wished he hadn’t. The pain in his head spiked and he was hit with a powerful wave of vertigo. He fought the temptation to lie back on the bed and forced himself to sit still until the moment passed. It didn’t take long for the dizziness to fade, but the pain remained behind as a reminder that all was not right with Ramah’s world.

  He swung his legs over the side of his bed, which was little more than a hard slab of stone with a thin layer of cloth atop it. Ramah preferred his furnishings to be a bit more Spartan than the soft, lush appointments favored by the other Councilors. Herris, in particular, decorated his private chambers with overstuffed furniture and objects of art so decadent that many a human king would feel like a pauper if he were ever permitted inside the Headcouncil’s bedrooms. It would never happen, of course. The only humans who ever made it into the Halls of the Bachiyr did so only as food. They would find themselves in the Larder, there to await the hunger of any Bachiyr who had need of blood.

  Ramah felt a twinge of pain in his belly. He could use some blood at the moment himself. He stepped off the bed and put his feet into his boots, resolving to visit the Larder first, then make his way to see Herris. Once he found him, he would find out what happened.

  That the Headcouncil would know was a foregone conclusion to Ramah’s mind. Nothing
happened in the Halls of the Bachiyr without Herris’s explicit knowledge. Ramah had once joked that Herris had eyes hidden in every corner of the massive complex. Herris had smiled, but said nothing, and Ramah realized that his joke was probably not far from the truth.

  He moved slowly to the door, but before he reached it, the temperature in his room dropped suddenly, reaching bone-numbing levels in seconds. There was only one creature in existence that took its pervasive chill everywhere it went: a Lost One. And if one had come calling on him in his personal chambers, it would not likely be alone. Ramah sat back on his bed, knowing he was about to have a visitor. He already knew who it would be.

  Eyes hidden in every corner, he thought, looking around at his private chambers. Where could Herris have hidden the eyes in Ramah’s personal rooms? Best not to ask. It would make him look like he distrusted Herris. In any case, the Headcouncil would never tell him.

  When the Lost One knocked on the door, the sound was faint, but insistent. Herris had probably instructed the thing to knock lightly, in case Ramah was still asleep. But of course Herris would have known better.

  Eyes in every corner.

  “Enter,” Ramah called, fighting the urge to check his room again.

  The door opened and a Lost One stepped in, followed closely by Herris himself. This particular Lost One had not been Lost for long. Its robes were still full and black rather than threadbare and gray, and its flesh was gray and faded, but still whole. The insects had not yet had time to have their way with it, though a small cloud of bottle flies zipped and zoomed around the creature, attracted to the smell of dead, decaying meat. In a few months, most of the flesh would be gone, leaving just enough to keep the creature animate, as well as feed the larvae that would soon call the Lost One home.

  Ramah shuddered. Powerful as he was, the Lost Ones still unnerved him, just as they did most other Bachiyr. Only Herris and Lannis seemed immune to their presence. Hell, even the ugly, misshapen Algor steered clear of the things.

  “Send that thing out in the hall,” Ramah said. Then, remembering to whom he spoke, added a belated, “If you please, Headcouncil.”

  Herris nodded, then turned to the creature. “Wait at the end of the corridor,” he said.

  The Lost One turned, and without a word, walked out of the room, disappearing around the doorway.

  “Thank you,” Ramah said when it was gone. “I hate those things.”

  “As do we all,” Herris said. “Still, they have their uses. If nothing else, their presence helps keep the lower Bachiyr obedient.”

  “Most of them,” Ramah replied.

  “True enough,” Herris said. “There are always those who think they are above the law, which brings me to my purpose for coming here. I wished to congratulate you on yet another job well done.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Herris stared at Ramah, a slight frown on his face. “You don’t remember?” he asked.

  Ramah grit his teeth. The loss of memory was a weakness, and he hated to feel weak. But he could not lie to Herris. Herris would know. Herris always knew. He shook his head, his eyes never leaving the Headcouncil’s face.

  “No,” he said. “Nothing after my arrival in Pompeii.”

  Herris frowned. “I thought that might be the case.” He sat in a wooden chair opposite Ramah’s bed, wincing as his rear touched the hard wood, which was unencumbered by anything remotely resembling a cushion.

  “I do wish you would upgrade your chambers, Ramah,” Herris said. “This really is barbaric. It’s as if you never left your village.”

  “I am aware of your disdain for my furnishings, Headcouncil,” Ramah said as respectfully as his impatience would allow. “What do you know of my mission? Why can’t I recall it?”

  “Quite successful,” Herris replied. “You captured the renegade Theron and brought him to the Halls for justice, despite having a volcano fall on you.”

  “A volcano?”

  “Not literally, of course.” Herris smiled. It was probably meant to be disarming, but if so, it failed miserably. “Theron was hiding in a cave on Vesuvius. He was experimenting on a local woman whom he had converted—without our permission, I might add—and trying to create a psalm that would allow him to resist burns, with the goal being to walk again in the sunlight.”

  “But that’s foolish,” Ramah said. “Even the Father cannot change the curse.”

  “Indeed,” Herris replied. “You arrived just as the volcano erupted. Pompeii and Herculaneum are gone, by the way. Buried under millions of tons of ash and stone.”

  “And Theron?”

  “You captured him and brought him here.”

  “Why do I not remember this?”

  “Theron attacked you. We don’t know what he used, probably some psalm that he created while he was in exile, which would explain why you were not able to defend against it. Whatever it was, it left you with a large hole in the back of your head. When I came across the two of you, Theron was bent over you, chanting. There was a great deal of blood. I must confess, I feared for your mind, but those fears seem to have been unfounded. You appear otherwise unharmed, aside from the lapse in memory.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Ramah said. “My head hurts. A lot.” Herris’s story seemed plausible. Theron had certainly surprised them before with his skill and cunning. It was not impossible or even unlikely that he had developed new abilities during his decades in exile. Still, there was something missing. Something Ramah could almost recall, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He shook his head, dismissing his unease. The doubts were probably just the lingering effect of whatever Theron had done to him.

  Speaking of Theron…

  “Where is the renegade now?” Ramah asked.

  “Out in the hall,” Herris replied. “You just saw him a few moments ago.”

  So that’s why the Lost One was so new. Ramah frowned. He would have liked to interrogate the renegade. Although truth be told, Ramah could not think of any information Theron might have that he would want. Except, of course, for knowledge about whatever psalm he had used on Ramah.

  “Did you ask him about this?” Ramah asked, pointing to his head.

  “I did, but that is best left for another day.”

  “Did he say whether or not my memories will return?”

  “I thought it best not to reveal to him the effect his misguided attack had on you.”

  Ramah was glad of that. It was bad enough for Herris to see him in a moment of weakness, but for Theron to see it, as well, was loathsome. And as a Lost One, no less. Ramah had no idea if the Lost Ones talked among themselves, but he didn’t want to learn the answer by having a group of them follow him around the Halls looking for a weakness.

  “Thank you, Headcouncil,” he said.

  “I did the best I could on such short notice,” Herris replied. “I would have summoned Lannis, but—”

  “No!” Ramah said quickly. “I prefer to keep her out of my head.”

  Herris nodded. “Which is why I undertook the healing myself, though I am not as skilled as she is.”

  “Nor as devious.”

  “True,” Herris said. “In any case, you are well. The pain is nothing that a trip to the Larder will not cure. I suggest you make your way there as soon as possible, then come find me. We have much to discuss regarding your next mission.”

  His next mission. Good. Nothing would make him feel better faster than going out into the world again. He stood up, and just as he was about to leave, he thought of another question.

  “What of Taras?” Ramah asked. “What became of him?”

  “Taras?” Herris looked confused.

  “The Roman. The one Theron changed in Jerusalem. I encountered him in Pompeii while searching for Theron. I fought him and he ran, but I can’t recall what happened after that.”

  “You killed him,” Herris said. Was it Ramah’s imagination or had the answer come just a bit too slowly to Herris lips? “You caught up to him in Pomp
eii. He was no match for you, of course. His body burned away in the sun before the volcano had a chance to claim it.”

  Ramah looked at Herris, trying to figure out why the Headcouncil’s story didn’t feel right. Herris was a devious bastard, but he had no reason to lie to Ramah about a low level renegade like Taras. Ramah chalked his misgivings up to more of Theron’s work, and walked past Herris and into the hallway. He passed the Lost One on his way to the larder and took a moment to study its face.

  It sure looked like Theron.

  “Show me your right hand,” Ramah commanded.

  The Lost One obeyed immediately, lifting its right arm up for inspection. The gray, withering flesh of the arm gave way to burned, blackened skin, which covered the creature’s wrist and hand. Theron had earned that distinctive scar in Jerusalem when he’d struck the Nazarene. To the best of Ramah’s knowledge, the renegade had spent the better part of four decades trying to heal the skin of his hand, only to fail each and every time.

  The Lost One in front of him was Theron, without a doubt.

  The thought brought a sincere smile to Ramah’s face, and a bit of his confusion faded. He had succeeded. Again. The renegade was in custody and justice had been meted out. He turned away from the Lost One and made his way to the Larder, hoping to find it well stocked. He needed more blood than one single human could provide. He would need at least two.

  Or three.

  ***

  Caelina stared across the blasted landscape, hoping to see some sign of food or water, but there was nothing. As far as she could see, the trees were twisted and broken. They stuck out of the ground like dry, brittle bones. Many of them were half buried in dark, gray ash, which covered the landscape like a blanket. It almost looked like snow, but for the dingy color.

  Gray had become the color of the world, it seemed. Only a few days ago, when she had come to Vesuvius searching for clues about Filo, this area was green and vibrant. Animals chittered and squeaked, while birds flew overhead, singing and squawking at the sky. And the trees were full of leaves and fruits. Now there was nothing. Just miles and miles of dead trees, gray ash, and death. Even their clothes had gone gray from being out in the stuff. A few more gray smudges on Nona’s face and she would look like a piece of living stone. Caelina could only imaging what her own face looked like.