by David McAfee
Theron thought about the female vampire from last night. He hadn’t seen her in a very long time. Not since the last time he’d had to hunt for her. That one time was enough. She’d almost killed him. If Ephraim hadn’t been there to stop her, he would surely have died. If she was in the city then he really needed to get away. Fast. He tried again to break the ropes, or at least the table under him, but it was no use.
“Where are we?” Taras asked, his voice a whisper. Theron ignored him. His mind whirred through the room, trying to think of a way out of this mess. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t escape the simple truth. He was tied to a table with rope almost as thick as his wrist, and he was too damned weak to rip a sheaf of papyrus.
“Is it getting colder in here?” Taras again. He was getting annoying.
Still, now that his attention had been drawn to it, he did notice the temperature in the room dropping. It didn’t affect him physically, since Bachiyr are immune to cold, but the sudden drop didn’t bode well. Only two things could account for it. A cold psalm from another Bachiyr, or the presence of a Lost One. Since Taras was the only other Bachiyr in the room, and he wasn’t whispering words of magic, Theron guessed it to be the second. But that was not possible, either.
A Lost One meant the Council. But the Council would not be working with Taras. They would have simply captured or killed him on sight. And they certainly wouldn’t be working with Taras’s new friend.
When the door to the room opened and a single, shrouded hand came into view, Theron knew the truth. A tattered Lost One stepped into the dim room.
“Damn,” Taras said. “I was hoping I’d never see one of those things again.”
“Me too,” Theron replied, forgetting in his surprise that he didn’t owe Taras any words.
The Lost One stood in the doorway, facing the two prisoners. It wore the tattered black robes of its station. Through the holes in the cloth, Theron could see the millions of insect larvae squirm and writhe as they feasted on the thing’s decaying body. The curse of the Lost One is that there will always be enough flesh to feed the parasites and keep the creature mobile, but no more. They literally rotted away while they were still alive. The sight of them made Theron’s insides churn, and not just for the obvious reasons. The situation was more ominous than he’d feared.
The thing’s presence meant the Council was here. But why? And why were they working with—
“Where is Lannis?” Taras asked. Theron assumed he was talking to the Lost One.
The creature turned its head toward the onetime Roman legionary. If Theron didn’t know better, he’d have sworn the thing smiled. It stepped slowly toward Taras, walking with an unholy grace, and pressed its larvae-covered right hand on the vampire’s forehead. Theron knew what would come next, he’d seen it hundreds of times.
Taras's scream filled the small chamber, bouncing off the walls in a high pitched wail that stung Theron's hypersensitive ears. Ordinarily, he would have enjoyed the other Bachiyr's pain, especially if he was the cause of it. But it was hard to smile when he knew he was probably next.
“Hello, Theron,” said a voice from the doorway. He didn’t have to turn his head to know who it belonged to. He’d heard that voice regularly for over nine hundred years. Of course, that had been in another lifetime, when he was the hunter and not the hunted.
“Hello Ramah,” he said, leaving off the customary Councilor. He turned his head to face the elder Bachiyr. “What brings you to Londinium?”
Ramah laughed, then his eyes flitted toward the Lost One, who was still working on Taras. The Roman’s screams had died down to a pathetic whimper. Having worked around the Lost Ones for centuries, Theron knew their capabilities as well as any. He could almost feel pity for his rogue progeny. Almost. But since it was pretty much Taras’s fault they were in this situation, he couldn’t quite manage it.
“I can’t believe I found both of you here. Together,” Ramah said. “This couldn’t have been any easier.”
“Go to hell.”
“Not today.” Ramah crossed the room and placed his hands on either side of Theron’s head. Theron winced as the elder’s claws elongated and dug into his skin. Ramah forced Theorn’s face up, probably so he could look him in the eye. Theron would have tried to resist, but he had no leverage and very little strength. “You will get to Hell long before I do,” Ramah promised. “But not before you beg me to send you there.”
With that, Ramah’s face hardened, and a sudden jolt of pain slammed into Theron’s body through his temples. All sight and sound vanished in an instant, leaving him in a world of bright red pain. He choked back a scream, certain his head had split open but determined not to give Ramah the satisfaction. The fire raged inside his head for what seemed like hours, though in truth it couldn’t have been that long.
When it finally eased, Ramah was laughing.
“No scream, Theron?”
Theron reiterated his earlier invitation.
“I am going to enjoy this,” Ramah said.
This time when the pain hit, it felt like a flaming boulder had been forced into Theron’s skull. He clenched his fists and his eyes shut, but the flames licked through the insides of his mind like a predator, clawing and eating away at his brain until all rational thought had fled. It didn’t take long for him to break his silence, giving Ramah the scream he desired.
12
Boudica watched the sun break over the Eastern horizon. Dawn. Time to march.
Behind her, the army of Iceni and Trinovante prepared for their journey. Her advance scouts had reported killing over a dozen Roman legionaries in the outlying fields. Some of them had been caught spying, while others were simply passing through but could not be allowed to continue after seeing the army camped so close to Londinium. Additionaly, dozens of civilians who’d been spotted in the area had been captured, interrogated, and put to the sword. Boudica was taking no chances.
Even with all their precautions, she knew her troops could not catch every single person who’d caught sight of her army. It mattered little enough, however. The prize was the city, and she meant to have it. The soldiers who remained in Londinium would not be able to withstand her onslaught, and the Roman insult would be avenged this very night. She turned to regard her troops. Cyric stood at the head of the army, calling orders to his officers, who in turn shouted orders to their men. Soon they would be ready to move. The journey would take the entire day, but that suited her just fine. Her intent was to attack at night when the city’s defenses would be at their lowest.
“It will be a long day,” her daughter said. Boudica turned to regard Heanua, uncertain of her meaning.
“Have you lost your will for this?” she asked. “Like Lannosea?”
Heanua’s eyes snapped left, and she stared hard into Boudica’s face. “Hardly. I wish we were there now. I can’t wait to gut the people of Londinium.”
The queen smiled. She should have known better. “Don’t worry. We’ll be there tonight.”
“It isn’t soon enough,” Heanua replied, and turned her face West, toward their objective. “Even if we arrive in five minutes, it will not be soon enough.”
Boudica noted that her daughter’s knuckles had gone white on the pommel of her sword, and nodded her approval. Heanua wanted this even more than she did. She supposed that made sense. Her indignities had not broken her spirit like they had Lannosea’s. Instead they had molded her into a fiery, merciless warrior.
Thinking about Lannosea reminded her that she had neither seen nor heard from her younger daughter all morning. The girl should be here with me right now, she thought, anxious to avenge herself on some Roman scum.
“Have you seen your sister?”
Heanua shook her head. “Not this morning. She is probably still asleep.”
“It’s almost time to move,” the gravel in her own voice surprised her. She hadn’t thought she could be so angry. “Why is she not standing here with us?”
Heanua shook her head
again. “I don’t know.”
“Find her,” Boudica snapped. “If she sleeps, wake her. If not, drag her to my tent. I want to see her within the hour.”
“I am not your personal messenger, mother,” Heanua said. “Send someone else to collect Lannie.”
Boudica rounded on her eldest daughter, her face flushed and warm. “You will do as I say, child!” she spat. “Or you will watch the conquest of Londinium from one of the cages!”
The cages were just that; mobile cells the Trinovante had brought with them to house prisoners. Each one was six feet by six feet, with stout wooden floors and iron bars set wide enough apart to allow for throwing rotten fruit and buckets of excrement. The Trinovante liked to humiliate their prisoners prior to killing them. Boudica had no intention of taking prisoners, but the Trinovante leaders wanted the cages brought along anyway, and she needed their help. They rolled along on wooden wheels behind the bulk of the army, pulled by oxen.
“Mother, you can’t—” Heanua began.
Boudica cut her off. “I can and will. I will have one of the cages brought to the front lines just for you, so you can view the taking of the city from behind its iron bars.”
A dark look flashed across Heanua’s pale features, but Boudica held her ground, daring her to disobey. For a moment, she seemed like she might argue further, but then her daughter pulled her hand from her sword and swept into a curt bow. “Yes, my Queen,” she said, and turned back to the encampment.
I’ll have to watch that one, Boudica thought. Heanua was not next in line for the throne of the Iceni, but she was not far behind. If anything happened to Boudica, Heanua would assume the leadership of her people. While Heanua would no doubt make a fine, strong Queen, Boudica wasn’t ready to give up her rule just yet.
She turned and headed back for her own tent, which would be disassembled within an hour. Along the way, she pondered the strangeness of having one daughter with no ambition at all, and another who would probably try to kill her in the coming days.
It is a strange world in which I live. Strange or not, Heanua would never have considered disobeying her queen before the Roman attack. Those bastards had not only taken her husband’s kingdom from her, they had taken her daughters, as well.
But she would have the final word. Nero would beg her to take her kingdom back by the time she finished with his army.
13
Theron awoke to the sound of someone groaning. It sounded distant, hollow, as though he heard it through a long corridor. The sound grew stronger and louder as he gradually drifted into consciousness. He kept his eyes closed and listened, not wanting to give away his growing lucidity.
The pain was amazing. All through his body tiny sizzles fired on his nerve endings, making his muscles twitch and spasm. Because of these involuntary movements, he knew without opening his eyes that he had been moved from the table to the stocks. The groaning sound must be Taras, who might be regaining his senses, as well. But did he have to be so damn noisy about it?
Theron opened his eye a crack and risked a quick look. He was in the same room as before. The chains on the wall where the Lost One had tortured Taras hung empty. He couldn’t see anyone else in the room with him. That didn’t mean anything, of course. With his head stuck in the stocks there could be an army behind him and he wouldn’t be able to see them. He might be able to hear the breathing of living occupants, or their heartbeats, but the only other people likely to be in the room with him had no need of either. Still, the silence of the place spoke to its emptiness. He hoped. He opened his eyes the rest of the way and looked around as well as he could, all the while expecting to hear Ramah’s chortling laughter behind him. When the laughter didn’t come, he listened harder. The sound of a mouse scurrying across the floor confirmed there was no Psalm of Silence on the room, which meant he probably was alone for the moment. Well, except for Taras. Ramah had left them both in the cell and gone off somewhere, probably to sleep away the day.
And why not? Neither of his prisoners were going anywhere. Not weak and shackled like they were. All Theron could do was wait for Ramah to kill him, which would probably occur just after dark. Most likely, the only reason he still lived at all was because Ramah had run out of time and had to find a place to spend the day.
Was it dark outside now? He was awake, which usually did not happen during the day. Did that mean dusk had come? If so, how long did he have before Ramah returned? It didn’t look good. Sooner or later the Councilor would come back to the room and finish what he’d started.
The hell with this, he thought. He strained his arms against the wood, hoping to break the lock, but it held. The coagulated, rusty brown stain on the floor told him well enough why. Ramah had spilled and wasted a great deal of his blood. He needed more. Without it he was too weak to break free.
“Theron?” The voice came from his left. Taras. He sounded weak as well.
Theron ignored him and again tried to break through his bonds. Once again they proved too strong for his blood-starved body.
“Theron?”
Theron ignored him again and put his mind to the task of escape. His body couldn’t get him out, so what could he do? He could try to bribe Ramah, though he didn’t have anything the Councilor would want or couldn’t take by force. Perhaps he could shout for help, hoping some human would wander by. But that might bring Ramah all the faster. Or the Lost One. The room wasn’t freezing, so he knew the cursed thing wasn’t near, but it couldn’t be far. Ramah would have it with him at all times.
He needed to think.
“Theron? Are you there?”
“Damn it, Roman. Where the hell else would I be?”
“Dead would have been my guess,” Taras replied.
“Not yet.”
“That was a Lost One, wasn’t it?”
“Nasty things, aren’t they?” Theron suppressed a shudder. The Lost Ones curdled his skin. “Nasty, but effective. Now be quiet.”
For a moment it seemed Taras would do what Theron asked, but then his voice came through the silence again. “Ramah wasted a great deal of your blood.”
“I can see that,” Theron said, looking again at the large dried puddle beneath him.
“Why didn’t he drink it?”
“I don’t know. Ask him.”
“Is our blood poisonous to other Bachiyr?”
“Of course not. Ramah just enjoys torture. Now be quiet and let me think before I remove your head from your shoulders.”
Taras managed to remain silent for a count of thirty, then he started again. “When I get out of this, Theron, I’m going to kill you.” Taras said.
Theron chuckled, a thick, wet gurgle. “I doubt you’ll get the chance. Ramah will kill you just to keep that pleasure for himself.”
“Ramah will not touch me once he talks to Lannis,” Taras said. “He obviously doesn’t know about our deal. Once she explains it to him, I will be free, and you will be dead.”
“Lannis?” Theron asked. “Councillor Lannis? How in the Nine Hells do you know her?”
“She came to me a few nights ago and told me you were in Londinium. She offered me clemency from the Council if I helped capture you, which we did. Once she talks to Ramah—”
Theron couldn’t help his laughter, which cut through the room and silenced Taras’s stupidity. Now everything made sense. “You are a bigger fool than I thought, and I thought you were quite the fool, already.”
“We’ll see,” Taras replied. “When Lannis returns—”
“That wasn’t Lannis,” Theron said, still chuckling. “That was Baella. A renegade Bachiyr that the Council has been hunting for a very long time. She always seems to pop up and make things messy, then disappears again. I bet she vanished the second she saw Ramah, didn’t she?”
Silence from Taras.
“I thought as much,” Theron continued. “You fell right into her trap, Roman. I’m not sure what she wanted with you, but now that Ramah has you, you will probably not live to see the mo
on rise tomorrow.”
Taras said nothing, thankfully, and Theron returned to the task at hand. Namely, escaping the stocks and getting the hell out of Londinium before Ramah came back. It wouldn’t be easy, even if he did manage to get out of this room. Ramah wasn’t the only one out in the city looking for him. Besides the Lost One, there was also Baella.
Theron didn’t have any idea what she would be doing with someone like Taras, but it didn’t surprise him. Nothing she did surprised him. He, and the rest of the Council, had been hunting her for centuries. Her name was whispered in the Halls of the Bachiyr like a curse, as if just by saying it she might appear to wreak havoc. The Council of Thirteen had been trying to corral her almost from the very beginning of his race.
No one knew much about her. Her origins and age were a mystery. Some speculated she was as old as Herris. To be sure, she’d been around at least as long as 3,900 year old Jui Jyn, the Council’s youngest member, and probably longer. Very few had ever seen her, and fewer still lived to tell others about it. Some Bachiyr even considered her a myth, but Theron knew better. He and Ephraim had cornered her once in the Library of Alexandria, just a few decades before the debacle that had made Theron a renegade, himself. Theron had set fire to the building in an attempt to destroy her. Ephraim had been inside at the time, and none too pleased that he had almost been killed along with the renegade.
Their relationship had never been the same after that. From good friends to a cool, detached distance, and then Ephraim fell under the spell of that damn Jewish rabbi and ruined everything. Theron should have killed the bastard in Alexandria and saved himself a great deal of trouble.
A shadow fell over his face, interrupting his thoughts. He looked up to see Taras standing over him, fangs extended and eyes burning.
“Who is the fool now?” Taras asked.
Theron stared at Taras’s hands. They had shrunk. As he watched, they returned to their normal size, filling in and swelling like rising dough.
“How...?” Theron began.
