by David McAfee
“Good,” she said, and sat back on the bed. “Theron is in town. He is here looking for you.”
The twitching in his muscles lessened, and he regained some control. “Me? Why?”
“Theron hates you almost as much as you hate him, if not more,” she replied. “Do you know what you took from him when you refused to take him to Jesus’ tomb?”
Taras shook his head. His body had resumed normal function, and he picked himself up off the floor and moved to the far side of the room. His visitor noticed, but her smile never faltered. “No, I don’t,” he said, “and I don’t care.” He thought of Mary’s face, and the familiar ache settled into his chest. “Whatever he lost, it is nothing compared to what he took.”
“He lost everything,” she continued. “He was on a path of glory; a servant of the Council, and a favored one at that. He’d made a few mistakes, but all he had to do was show up in the Halls of the Bachiyr with the rabbi’s head and he would have had everything he wanted.”
“Well,” Taras said, “we know how that turned out.”
She stared at him, a thoughtful expression on her face. “You and Theron are much alike, Roman. You are both skilled assassins who worked for a higher power. Both of you are dedicated to your tasks, and possessed of far more patience than most, yet your biting sarcasm has landed you in trouble more than once. And of course, both of you are Bachiyr who are running from the agents of the Council.”
Privately, Taras swore to himself he was nothing like Theron, but it was hard to argue the similarities with her. Time to change the subject. “So why do you need my help?” he asked.
“He will follow you anywhere,” she replied. “If you walked into the Council’s portal here in Londinium he wouldn’t hesitate, even though he knows the Council’s agents would swarm him. He hates you that much.”
“So?”
“I want you to lead him to me. Let him see you in the market, then run to me. Once he is nearby I can capture him.”
“Why do you want him?” Taras asked for the second time.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Taras shook his head again.
She looked at him again with that same bemused smile on her lips. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Should I?”
“My name is Lannis,” she said. “Fifth of The Council of Thirteen.”
7
Theron walked into the tavern and surveyed the room, his head swiveling from one side to the other. The main room stank of sweat and old mead, with a hint of blood added, probably from a brawl. The walls were bare, unadorned wood, with not a single window to let in light or allow the stale air to circulate. Apparently the patrons of this place enjoyed their gloom.
A dozen or so wooden tables sat on the floor, most of them empty. Behind the bar, a stout Briton was deep in conversation with a plump young serving girl. The two looked bored, as well they might. The place was nearly empty, with only a handful of sullen, raggedly-dressed humans nursing their drinks.
These are the ones who stayed behind, thought Theron. The city is doomed.
A pair of soldiers stood alone in a corner, talking and drinking and casting wistful glances at the door. Probably ordered by Suetonius to stay behind and offer a token resistance. Perhaps to slow down the Iceni horde. By all reports, Boudica did not take prisoners, so the two soldiers were as good as dead. Judging by their faces, they knew it, as well. Having seen firsthand what the Roman Legion did to deserters, Theron understood why they stayed behind. Better a quick death in battle than a slow, painful one at the hands of a Roman Inquisitor.
Taras was nowhere in sight. Another wasted effort.
Theron turned to leave, but was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you a coward, too?” said a gravelly voice at his back. “Afraid of a few barbarians?”
Theron turned to find himself face to chest with a very large - and very drunk - man in a dirty tunic and torn breeches. Theron recognized him as one of the men from the only occupied table in the tavern. Only a few moments ago the man’s face had been buried deep in a mug of ale. His craggy face revealed lines of dirt and sweat, and his odor testified to his lack of proper bathing. The man swayed on his feet, steadied by his hand on Theron’s shoulder, and bent his neck to bring his face close enough that the vampire could smell the rot of his mouth.
“Are you going to answer me?” the man asked, revealing a mouthful of half rotten teeth. He shook his hand, causing Theron to jerk back and forth like a toy.
Theron didn’t say a word. He punched the drunk in the solar plexus, delighted by the grimace of pain that sprouted on the large man’s face. He pulled his hand back and punched again, this time in the sternum. A loud crack echoed through the tavern as the bone snapped, along with several ribs. Theron grinned as the man slid to the floor, his breath coming in wet, choppy gasps. A thin line of blood trickled from the drunk’s mouth. Theron knew what that meant; he’d punctured a lung. The man would be dead in minutes, drowned in his own blood. No less than he deserved.
He looked up from the man, who lay on the floor coughing up large wads of blood and phlegm, and surveyed the tavern once more. No one met his eyes or even looked at him. The two soldiers continued to drink and talk as though nothing had happened. Most likely they simply didn’t see the point in arresting or even accosting Theron, knowing the city and everyone in it was doomed. Theron nodded to the gloomy barkeep and stepped outside, pulling his leg free of the drunk’s weakening grip.
Outside, he licked the blood from his knuckles, pleased at the outcome of the encounter. He hadn’t even had to use his claws.
His spirits lifted a little, he walked across the street to the next tavern, looking for Taras.
***
Taras, meanwhile, was on the other side of the city, trying to digest the strange news he’d just received. The woman said her name was Lannis. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember where he’d heard it. He thought he recalled something about a very powerful Bachiyr by that name, someone akin to Ramah, the monster he’d barely escaped in Jerusalem all those years ago. If so, he didn’t want any part of what she had to offer.
“I don’t need your help,” he said. “I can find Theron on my own.”
She nodded. “Of that I have no doubt. But can you defeat him?”
He was about to say yes, of course he could, but something about the bemused smirk on her face kept him silent.
“You can’t,” she said for him. “You have no idea what he is like. He would destroy you in less than a minute.”
“I almost killed him in Jerusalem,” Taras pointed out.
“That you did, but how did you manage?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was it a fair fight? Or was he preoccupied with something? Did you have his full attention?”
Taras didn’t like the smile on her face.
“Was he,” she pressed, “looking at a map or some such thing when you attacked him from behind?”
“How the devil can you know that?”
“Answer the question, Taras.”
He stared at her, willing her to look away, desperate for some sense of control, but she stared back. Her face gave him nothing. Eventually his eyes fell to his boots. “All right,” he said. “Theron had me beaten and near death. He’d all but discounted my existence when he turned to his map. It was only through the odd strength he’d given me the day before that I was able to stand and sneak close enough to plunge my sword through his back.”
“In the back, Taras?”
His eyes shot to her face. Her eyes sparkled with barely contained humor. Surely, she knew who he was in life. Stabbing a man in the back, while viewed as dishonorable, was often simply a measure of his profession. Caution kept you alive as an assassin.
Of course she knew. How could she not. She knew everything else. He dropped his eyes to his boots again. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever done. Not even close.”
“I thought not. That’s why I came to you, Taras. You have an innate sense of practicality which should make my offer more enticing.”
He sat on the bed, knowing a business discussion when he saw one. “Offer?”
Lannis sauntered up to him, placing the tip of one dainty finger to his chest. She swirled it, teasing his skin. The rumble of desire that her fingers roused in him kept his mind unfocused, and he forced himself to remember Mary’s face in an attempt to regain control. It helped, but only a little.
“So you are Lannis,” he said.
“You’ve heard my name before,” she replied.
Taras nodded.
“I thought so. I could tell when I introduced myself. But do you know who I am.”
Taras saw no need to respond.
She jabbed her finger into the flesh of his shoulder, causing him to jerk backward. It didn’t hurt much, but it surprised him. She brought her bloodied fingertip to her mouth and stuck it between her lips, licking off the blood with a contented smile. “I can see to it that you are hunted no longer.”
“How?” Taras asked, his hand going to the small hole in his shoulder.
“I am fifth ranked of the Council of Thirteen. Only Matawe, Algor, Ramah, and Headcouncil Herris himself are above me. Help me capture Theron, and you will never have to run again.”
Taras stayed sitting, not quite sure what to think. Could she be telling the truth? Could he really be free live without always having to look over his shoulder? He thought about the fight he’d gotten into earlier with the female vampire and her two cronies. The Council’s minions were getting better every time, eventually he would face one he could not defeat. To not have to worry about such a thing any more...
“You can do that?” he asked.
Lannis nodded. “I can. And I will. As long as you help me catch Theron.”
“What will you do with him?”
Lannis eyed him. Her straightforward gaze caused the hairs on the back of his neck to twitch. Was she angry? Or was she merely considering how much to tell him?
“You want to kill him, don’t you?” she asked.
Of course Taras wanted to kill him. It was almost all he’d thought about for the last twenty-seven years. But...
...but he wanted his freedom more. He nodded, but he lacked the conviction to make it firm.
“I thought so,” she said. “It is none of your concern what we do with him, Taras. Your job is to lead him to me, not to ask questions.”
“Very well,” Taras said. “I agree to your terms, Lannis.”
Her fist shot out faster than his eyes could register. The pain on the side of his head flared bright white, and his vision clouded over. When it cleared, he found himself lying on the floor in a small puddle of blood. Lannis stood over him, her expression calm, but the illusion of serenity was spoiled by the bright red blood on her hand. His blood.
“What...?” he began.
She shushed him and pressed her finger, still covered with his blood, to his lips. “Shhh. That was a lesson. If you are going to join the Bachiyr society, Taras, from this point on you must address me, and all other superiors, with respect. You will refer to me as Councilor Lannis, or next time I will not be gentle.”
Taras nodded from his position on the floor, silently wondering what the Hell he’d just gotten himself into.
8
Boudica stared at the walls of Londinium. Her horse shuffled, nervous, as though it sensed her reckless mood. She was not above racing into the city, sword drawn, and cutting down every person she found until they managed to kill her. The problem with that plan—as it was with the last two cities—was that her death would accomplish nothing. She would be able to kill a handful of Romans, maybe even a dozen, but they would stop her. If they didn’t kill her on the spot she would stand trial and they would kill her later, probably after raping her and beating her again.
The scars on her back burned. The wounds had healed, but faint memories of the pain whispered across the scarred tissue, reminding her that there was more at stake.
As if she could ever forget.
To her right, another horse snorted. She turned to look at Heanua, seated astride a large black mare. Her daughter’s eyes glittered with the reflected light of Londinium’s many torches. A soft black cloak covered her from head to toe, tied at the waist to prevent it from fluttering in the breeze. She knew Heanua would be more than willing to ride into the city with her and hack a bloody path through its inhabitants. Her hatred of the Romans burned almost as brightly as Boudica’s.
But they both knew it would have to wait.
The reason was simple mathematics. They could kill perhaps two dozen Romans on their own or wait until her army arrived and tear down the city board by board, slaughtering every one of its twenty thousand inhabitants, or at least those that remained. Reports had come in that Suetonius had abandoned the city, leaving behind a token force and a few thousand civilians who chose not to leave.
They would regret that decision, she vowed.
More important at that moment was the fact that Heanua sat at her right hand, but the space to her left—where Lannosea would normally be—stood empty, a sad reminder of what her family had become. “Where is Lannie?” she asked.
Heanua snorted. It was all the answer she needed. Lannosea would be back with the army, supposedly dealing with the Trinovante. Boudica knew the truth, however. Her youngest daughter no longer had the stomach for battle. Her eyes stung at the memory of her beautiful daughter, stumbling toward her on shaky legs. Blood flowed down the inside of her thighs. The legionaries who had attacked her tossed insults at her back as she fell sobbing to the dirt. Ever since the attack, she had preferred to sit and brood in her tent, alone with her thoughts.
Before the king’s death, Lannosea had been fierce and strong, as dangerous in battle as she was beautiful. But now her daughter’s strong braids and studded leather armor were gone, replaced by flowing yellow hair and loose-fitting robes. The Romans had turned her prized wolf into a sheep.
Boudica shook her head, using her anger to burn away her tears. What was done is done, and she could not undo it. If Lannosea could not be counted on to swing her sword well, then she would be more hindrance than help. Thus Lannie would remain behind with a few of the Trinovante women, as well as the younger children. As with the Iceni, the older Trinovante children would be given weapons and sent to battle. It was their war, too, after all.
The Trinovante had answered her call with not only weapons, but warriors to wield them. Additionally, they had sent along some wonderful devices that reminded her of the Roman ballista, but much larger. The stones these catapults, as the Trinovante called them, could throw weighed almost as much as her horse, and they had brought dozens of them, along with heavy balls of rope coated in pitch. The latter could be set aflame prior to launch.
The image of what those flaming missiles would do to the wooden walls and buildings of Londinium brought an eager smile to her face. They would not even have to get close to the city. With the catapults, they would be able to reduce most of the buildings to rubble without being in any danger from the remaining Roman archers or ballista. Once Londinium lay in ruins, she and her army would march through what remained of the city and kill everyone they found alive.
She watched the walls from a distance, counting the soldiers who patrolled it. “No more than a hundred archers remain,” she noted.
“Aye,” Heanua said. “And Romans, by the look of them. Filthy bastards. They should all die.”
“They will,” Boudica replied. “Tomorrow we will destroy this place.”
“It will be over too quickly. They deserve to die painfully. Like pigs on a stake.”
Boudica nodded. “That they do.” Impalement would be too good for the like of the Londonites. She would rather kill all of them slow, but they didn’t have time. By now word of her march must have reached that bastard Caesar in Rome. It wouldn’t be long before she found herself pursued by half
the Roman Legion. When that time came, she intended to be someplace defensible. Londinium was just a stop along the way.
But what a stop it would be.
***
Ramah stepped out of the gatehouse door into the city. Newly installed, the building nonetheless appeared a bit run down and old. Nothing that would attract much notice. All the gatehouses had been designed that way on purpose. The idea was to make them blend in. In Londinium, as in most cities with gates, the building that house the Bachiyr’s portal to the Halls stood in silent, brooding anonymity. Not worn enough to attract attention, but not so fine as to be noticed.
The first thing he noticed was the crowds. Hundreds, even thousands of people walked the streets, most of them headed toward the gates. Men, women, children, and the elderly pushed their way along, carrying small bags of possessions over their shoulders. Along the street, many carts stood on the side of the road, their contents less valuable when the owners realized they could not pull them through the crowd. A handful of ragged, dirty men rummaged through the carts, stealing everything of value and then running back into the city. Obviously, some people intended to remain. But the rest were running from something. But what?
He thought back to his conversation with Herris, and realized he hadn’t gotten a very detailed report on the city. His fault, he should have waited for Herris or the steward to brief him, but he had been too eager to kill Theron. He could turn and walk back into the gatehouse, thereby admitting his ignorance, or he could proceed as planned. Not one for admitting error, Ramah stepped off the stoop into the throng.
The Bachiyr threaded his way along the dusty streets. In this part of the city, the streets were little more than hard packed dirt beneath his feet. Londinium had cobbled roads and alleyways, but only in the city’s prominent areas. They would be used by the wealthy while riding in soft, padded coaches. Here, among the taverns and the brothels, no one cared if the wagons jounced wildly along the street. Most of the people here didn’t have so much as a wheelbarrow, anyway.
