by David McAfee
He approached slowly, determined to get some answers, but not willing to rush at the creature lest it be feigning incapacitation. The renegade watched his approach, hatred burning in his eyes like coal. Ramah noted blood on the creature’s throat. This blood wasn’t fresh and liquid like the blood from his open chest. It had mostly coagulated around a small wound in its neck that looked like a ring of small punctures. Two of them were deeper and more prominent than the others. Ramah knew what that meant. A bite mark! And still fresh.
This Bachiyr could not be more than a few hours old.
Its mouth was moving again, and Ramah, realizing he would need sound to interrogate the thing, dropped the Psalm of Silence.
“...ave you,” it said in Roman. “She will slaughter you like a lamb.”
Ramah knelt down, placing his claws on the wounded vampire’s throat. “Who? Who will slaughter me?”
“My master. She will have you. She will devour you.”
So it’s a she, Ramah thought. Lannis, perhaps? Taras had mentioned her by name earlier. But why would she risk Headcouncil Herris’ anger, and her own skin, trying to kill him? What could she gain? She could not hope to kill him with an army of simple minions. Minions unauthorized by the Council, no less. Besides, fighting among the Council was forbidden by The Father Himself. It didn’t make sense.
“I think not,” Ramah said. “I don’t know who your master is, young one, but I will find out. And then I will kill her for making you.”
The Bachiyr chuckled, spraying blood from its throat. “My master will have you, Ramah. Your remaining nights number almost as few as mine.”
Ramah stared. The thing knew his name. How the hell did it know his name?
“Who is your master?”
Gurgling laughter from the creature’s throat.
Ramah jabbed his claws into its side again, tearing the hole in its flesh even wider. The laughter halted, cut off by a cry of pain.
“Who?” Ramah demanded. “Tell me now and I will kill you quickly.”
The renegade spat a wad of blood in Ramah’s face. Ramah winced. In his momentary distraction, the prone vampire lunged at his throat. Acting on instinct, Ramah drove his claws deeper into the things chest, piercing its heart. The renegade’s face strained with pain, then he went limp.
“Damn,” Ramah said. He hadn’t meant to kill it so quick, but it had forced his hand. He would have liked to interrogate it further. Ramah stood, wiping his bloody hands on the dead Bachiyr’s clothes. He might as well have used his own, as he was covered in gore from several battles already.
But this business about the thing’s master bothered him. The renegade, only a few hours old, had known his name. That meant the pair had been waiting for him. Probably instructed to ambush him by his master. Ramah had a feeling that if he checked the throat of the female renegade, he would find a similarly fresh wound on her throat. That is, if he hadn’t ripped her head off as he did. No matter. It wasn’t important.
He resumed his walk to Taras and Theron, wondering why Lannis, if indeed it was Lannis, would risk so much to come after him when she had so little to gain by his death. He would need to ask Taras a few questions before they left for the Council. The thought made him smile.
Questioning Taras promised to be entertaining, at the very least.
16
Boudica watched her daughter approach—alone—and could not keep the angry growl from entering her voice. “Where is Lannosea?”
Heanua shook her head but did not back away. “She won’t be joining us.”
“What?” Boudica felt the anger rising in her face. “She is an Iceni Princess. She will join us or I will kill her myself. I should have known better than to send you to fetch her. I will go myself.” Boudica turned away and stormed down the makeshift path toward Lannosea’s tent.
She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned to find Heanua holding her back. She jerked her shoulder, trying to free her arm. “What is it, Heanua? Do you think you can do a better job of running this war? You couldn’t even get your sister out of her tent.”
“Lannosea has taken ill,” Heanua said. “She can’t come with us today.”
Boudica stopped struggling. “Lannie is ill?”
Heanua nodded.
“How bad is it?”
“Very.” Heanua removed her hand from Boudica’s shoulder. “She can barely walk.”
“Why wasn’t I told of this?”
“Lannosea has not told anyone. I only found out because I witnessed her condition for myself.”
“I should go see her, as well,” Boudica started down the path again.
“No, mother,” Heanua stepped in front of her. “Lannosea is being well tended. It would not do the Iceni any good for you to get sick, as well.”
“Is her malady contagious?”
“We don’t know. But it’s possible. How would you look, mother, leading the army from your sick bed?”
Heanua was right. Boudica wanted to go see her daughter, but getting sick herself would only harm the campaign. It would have to wait until after the attack of Londinium. Once the city was destroyed, she would go see Lannosea and find out exactly what was going on. The girl had been acting strange lately, anyway.
“Very well,” she said. “You and I will lead the attack on Londinium. Lannie will rest. For now.”
Boudica turned back and walked to where her generals were gathered, no doubt going over a few last minute strategies. Cyric was there, as well, going on about the next city on their list. Always thinking ahead, that one. That’s why she liked him so much. That and the fact that he was obviously smitten with Lannosea.
She smiled. He would make a fine king someday.
***
Heanua watched her mother walk away, relieved for the time being that she wouldn’t have to come up with a bigger lie. What she’d told Boudica was partially true. Lannie was ill. Sort of. And she hadn’t told anyone. Of course, pregnancy wasn’t contagious, but she couldn’t think of another way to keep her mother from visiting the tent. At least she had bought a little time to think.
She climbed into her saddle and urged her mount forward under the guise of inspecting the troops. They didn’t require inspection, and indeed, many of them could scarcely be called soldiers. Her mother had assembled a vast horde of Iceni and Trinovante warriors, but compared to the disciplined ranks of the Romans, they were little more than a gathering of barbarians.
Heanua had seen the Roman Legion in action. Orderly rows and rank upon rank of organized men who knew their role and followed orders without question. It was a system that had seen Rome expand to the great empire it was today. Looking at her own people, she could only shake her head. Presently, two men fought over a wineskin even though they were to march in short order. A little farther on, a group of men snored loudly as their captain tried to wake them, the air around them smelled strongly of wine and mead. Not far away a man and woman lay naked on a mat of furs, their hands and mouths exploring each other’s bodies while a group of onlookers urged them on.
This was her army.
Heanua sighed. Her people were ragged and undisciplined, and the Romans were better armed and had the experience of generations of military learning. The Iceni had only one advantage, but it was a good one.
Strength of numbers.
Boudica had assembled a massive force of over a hundred thousand warriors, and more joined every day, attracted by the thought of plunder and conquest. The ground shook under her feet when her army marched, and the land behind them was bare and brown, the grass trampled dead by innumerable feet, hooves, and wagons. Among her people, it was the greatest such army ever gathered, and it would roll over Londinium like an ox over an anthill.
And Lannosea would not be part of it.
It felt strange to know she would ride into battle without her sister. Before the attack, Lannie had been a fierce warrior, besting women and men alike. But for the last five months she’d been timid and quiet, hardly daring to
leave her tent. At least Heanua now understood why.
Pregnant. Those Roman legionaries had really done it for her sister. Her life was ruined, now. Cyric, who had doted on her ever since she was a child, would not want her once she birthed a Roman bastard, and she would lose the rulership of her people. That meant Heanua would be queen someday, a title she did not want. Let the Boudicas and Lannoseas of the world rule. Heanua had no head for it, and had never aspired to be queen. Heanua knew her sword and her mount. She relished the feel of the rippling muscles between her legs as her horse ran down an opponent, the scream as her sword cut into an enemy’s flesh, and the smells of blood and fire that accompanied battle.
That was Heranua’s world, not sitting in a cushioned chair issuing orders. But that would be her life unless she could think of a way to help Lannie. As she rode among the troops, she pondered her options. She thought of several plans, then discarded them immediately as unworkable or pointless. No matter what she might do, it didn’t change the fact that her sister was pregnant with the bastard child of a Roman legionary. By the time she reached the catapults, her face had grown flush with frustration.
She had to find a way to help Lannie. She had to.
17
The damp smell of mold and mildew flowed up from the stone stairway when Ramah pushed open the worn, peeling door that led to the basement. He expected to find his Lost One minding Theron and Taras, who should be ready for questioning after spending the day locked away. Instead he found Taras lying unconscious or dead on the floor and Theron missing. The stout lock on the side of the wooden stocks was broken, and hung by the warped loop of metal, but he could see nothing out of place with the shackles on the wall. The bolts were still in place, and the rings hung limply from chains embedded into the stone. How had Taras escaped them?
His Lost One was nowhere to be seen.
He stood in the doorway and examined the rest of the room, wanting to make sure there would be no surprises when he went in. More than one Bachiyr had been trapped by not paying attention to his surroundings. Ramah should know, he was an expert at catching his victims unaware, and so was Theron. But the room seemed clear. No ominous shadows or dusty tarps, and the wind outside told him there was no Psalm of Silence on the room. The walls were bare but for a row of metal rods, each about four feet long and an inch thick. Ramah didn’t know their intended use, but they were good for beating a prisoner across the back, as he’d learned the previous night. Everything was as he’d left it. The only thing out of place was the Bachiyr on the floor.
Ramah stepped through the doorway, his anger growing with each step. He never should have left the Lost One alone with his charges. When he found the thing, he was going to destroy it for letting one of the prisoners escape. Especially Theron. Ramah could have coped with the escape of Taras, but not Theron. The former Lead Enforcer was the one he really wanted. The Roman was just an added bonus.
As he approached, he reminded himself that the yellow-haired former legionary had been an accomplished assassin in life, and had somehow managed to survive as an unauthorized Bachiyr for almost thirty years, despite being hunted by every agent the Council of Thirteen could muster. It would be a mistake to assume everything in the room was as it seemed. Taras could be feigning unconsciousness, waiting for Ramah to get close enough to strike. Not that it would matter. Ramah would crush him easily, and both of them knew it.
He kicked Taras in the side of his chest, noting the satisfying crack as one of the prone vampire’s ribs broke. Taras groaned and made a weak effort to curl into a fetal position, but apparently the effort was too much for him, and he soon lay still again.
What the hell happened here? Had Taras escaped his bonds and then tried to assist Theron? Ramah couldn’t help but smile at the thought. Theron would have attacked Taras as soon as he was free. Taras would have to be very stupid to believe otherwise.
But Taras isn’t stupid, Ramah thought. Weak, but not stupid. So what did happen?
Ramah knelt down and grabbed Taras by the shoulder, rolling him over on his back. Taras’s eyes were closed and his fangs were retracted. He groaned again as Ramah moved him, and his eyes opened a crack. After a moment, the Roman’s eyes widened. Recognition dawned on Taras’s face, and he tried to squirm away, but Ramah put his hands to the other man’s shoulders and pinned him to the floor.
“You remember me,” Ramah said, pleased.
Taras didn’t respond, but Ramah could see the man’s mind working behind his eyes, probably looking for an escape.
“Don’t bother,” Ramah said. “In your condition, you would not get far, and there is no city full of Jews to cover your escape this time.”
Taras’s face fell. He must know, just as Ramah did, that he had no hope of escaping. Last time he’d been lucky. Ramah had been occupied fighting off a large group of humans in Jerusalem, which allowed Taras time to get away.
Not this time.
“Where is Theron?” Ramah asked.
“I don’t know,” Taras replied, his voice faint.
“You freed him?”
“Never,” Taras spat. “I freed myself. After I escaped I went to kill him and someone attacked me from behind.”
“The Lost One?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was the room cold?” Ramah asked.
“It is cold everywhere I go,” Taras growled, his voice gaining strength. “I haven’t been warm since your lackey—”
Ramah cracked the other’s head on the stone floor, eliciting a yelp of pain. “Don’t press your luck, Roman. The moment you cease to be useful I will kill you.”
“No,” Taras blurted. “The room wasn’t cold.”
“That’s better.” Ramah paused. It couldn’t have been the Lost One, then. Could it have been Lannis who attacked Taras from behind? But why? If she had set all this in motion, turning the fresh vampires against Ramah and making a deal with Taras, why would she attack him once Theron was captured? Did she want to be the one to bring him in? If so, why? Lannis had never shown any interest in hunting down fugitives before. She enjoyed punishing them when Ramah or an Enforcer brought them in, but actually hunting for them was another matter. She preferred to sit, safe and snug, in her plush chambers while others did all the work.
Something wasn’t right.
“You mentioned a deal with Lannis,” Ramah said. “Tell me what she offered you.”
To his surprise, Taras shook his head and barked a weak, wet laugh. “The woman said I would be free if I helped her capture Theron. She told me I could stop running and live in peace.”
“And you believed her,” Ramah replied, a smile on the corner of his lips.
Taras nodded. “I did.”
“Lannis is not known for keeping her word.”
“Theron said the same thing. He also called me a fool.”
“He was right,” Ramah said. “You were a fool.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway.”
“Of course not,” Ramah said. “Lannis cannot make deals for the Council. Only Headcouncil Herris can grant immunity.”
“No,” Taras said. “It doesn’t matter because it wasn’t Lannis who made the offer. It was someone else.”
“How do you know?” Ramah had figured as much, but he wanted confirmation.
“Theron saw her, too. He said the woman’s name was Baella.”
Ramah stopped, unsure he’d heard correctly. “Did you say Baella?”
“I did,” Taras said.
If Ramah’s lungs still worked, his breath would have caught in his throat. Baella! Finally! Here was the opportunity to capture the single most wanted renegade in the history of his race, and she had all but fallen into his lap. He had no idea what she would want with Theron, but he didn’t intend to let her have him.
“How long ago did they leave?” Ramah asked.
“I don’t know,” Taras replied. “I was unconscious.”
Ramah grabbed one of the sharp metal rods from the wall and drov
e it through Taras’s chest and into the stone underneath, pinning the renegade to the floor. While Taras screamed and writhed, Ramah noted that he’d missed the heart, but not by much. Damn. He turned his back on Taras and walked up the stairs, nearly tripping on the top step in his haste to catch up to Baella and Theron.
“Don’t worry,” he called over his shoulder, “I’ll finish the job when I get back.”
18
Theron needed blood. Badly. He stumbled along behind Baella, trying to keep up, and found his face in the dirt far too often for his liking.
“Ramah will be coming for us,” Baella hissed. “Can’t you go any faster?”
“Need...blood...” Theron said. “My insides are turning to dust.”
Baella looked him up and down. “Blood? Why didn’t you say so?” She turned away from him and looked up the street. After a moment, she started walking.
“Stay here,” she said. Theron, still weak, nodded. It wasn’t like he had much choice, anyway. He sat with his back to a building, marveling at this strange new turn.
Baella. Here. In Londinium.
That certainly explained what happened to the Lost One. In the entire history of his race, only one Bachiyr had been able to destroy a Lost One without the aid of the Council. Baella. No one knew how she did it, or why, but she seemed to kill every Lost One she ran across, leaving nothing but a pile of ash in their place. She was rumored to have many other abilities not seen in other Bachiyr. The list of her supposed powers ran the gamut from being able to fly to turning people to stone. Ridiculous, of course. But she’d done something to him earlier that left him in a very weakened state—a state magnified by a night of Ramah’s attention—and damned if he could figure out what it was or how she did it.
Very few had ever even seen Baella. Theron and Ephraim had tracked her down in the Library of Alexandria many years before, back when they both worked as Enforcers for The Council. That night, Theron had caught his first glimpse of the penultimate renegade vampire. Theron had set fire to the Library while Ephraim and Baella battled inside, but she still managed to escape. Ephraim had emerged from the burning wreckage with only minor injuries, very upset with Theron for nearly killing him. He’d never been the same afterward, and eventually had betrayed his people for a human rabbi in Jerusalem.
