61 A.D. (Bachiyr, Book 2)

by David McAfee

  Like music, he thought.

  Ramah followed the trail through a dense group of trees, keeping to the shadows and enacting a Psalm of Silence to disguise his approach. As he threaded his way through the oaks, maples, and alders, his ears picked up a low, persistent buzz to the east. It sounded like a large number of people gathered in one place talking, screaming, eating, and probably fucking, as would befit the Iceni and neighboring tribes. The trail of the humans also led east, so Ramah followed his ears, thinking he’d found his quarry at last.

  Before he caught sight of the group, he had already come to the conclusion that it was more than just thirty humans. The low buzz had evolved into a din of voices, indecipherable on their own and merging into one long, hushed sound. The trail continued toward the noise, and so Ramah kept following, though he began to think he would not be able to capture Theron and Baella as easily as he’d first thought. If the group proved as large as it sounded, he might not even be able to see them.

  He poked his head around one wide maple and saw that the group of trees ended about thirty feet away, opening up into a large field of short, hardy grass that stretched for miles in every direction.

  Standing in that field was an army.

  Ramah swore, scanning the groups. He spotted the infantry right away, the chaotic, disorderly humans who stood on edge and waited, fidgeting with their weapons. They were a largely undisciplined lot, which would make sense. Only those Iceni capable of learning to ride or work the ballistae would be spared infantry duty. To the south of the infantry he spotted the ballistae troops. Missile after missile launched from the mechanical monsters to drop upon the city. The attack must have started just after he left.

  Movement near the ballistae caught his eye, and he noted the mounted riders near their head. The generals, no doubt, planning the attack. Not that it did him any good. He could not rip his way through fifty thousand human troops. Theron and Baella were nowhere to be seen, not that he had much chance of spotting them in this chaos. Ramah watched the army, unwilling to give up his search.

  After ten minutes with no sign of his prey, he swore under his breath. He was just about to turn away when a group of men crested a distant hill and approached the mounted officers. Many of the men in the new group limped gamely along, and several were missing limbs. But every one of them held a crossbow trained and ready, pointed at the center of their group. Ramah tensed.

  There, chained to a mobile platform, was Theron. The renegade’s shredded clothing was soaked through with blood. It hung from his flesh in tatters and rags, revealing dozens of fresh, pink scars. He struggled in his bonds and shouted curses at the humans around him, but he seemed secure. Still, the humans were taking no chances. Several of the crossbows were loaded with flaming bolts. The men might not know exactly what they had captured, but they had an idea how dangerous it was. Baella was nowhere to be seen. Ramah had figured as much. Another day, Baella, he thought.

  The sight of Theron in chains spurred him on, and Ramah stepped from behind the tree and started walking toward the mounted generals. He didn’t know what he would say to gain access to the gathering, but he was not going to let Theron get away again. Somehow, he would find a way in. If he had to, he would rip and tear his way through have the damn Iceni army. But by The Father, Theron was coming to the Halls of the Bachiyr tonight, even if—

  A flash of pain on the back of his head drove all thoughts of Theron and the Halls of the Bachiyr from his mind. His vision failed, and the last thing he felt was a strange sensation that he was falling…falling…then nothing at all.

  26

  The night was lit only by fire. The growing orange glow over the city mixed with the dancing light of nearby torches and the few remaining balls of burning tar that had yet to be fired. All in all, it cast the area around the queen in a flickering, shifting light. It was hardly enough to see the Bachiyr’s face—the thing stood tied to a thick pole in the center of a mobile cell—but even in the sullen light there was no mistaking those burning eyes and pointed fangs, which gleamed an evil red in the dim light.

  The moment the word Bachiyr left her lips, the creature turned toward her, snarling like a rabid dog. It strained against its bonds, grunting with the effort. Her men jumped back a step at the sudden movement, their swords pointed toward the cage, but the ropes held strong, thank the gods. After a tense moment, the Bachiyr relaxed, apparently realizing it was stuck.

  But for how long? Boudica doubted they would be able to detain the creature indefinitely. By the look on the Bachiyr’s face, it was thinking along the same lines. Its eyes sizzled with anger, sending a chill up the queen’s spine despite the heat of the nearby fires. She had never seen a true Bachiyr before, but she had heard all the legends, some more ludicrous than others. They were said to drink human blood. Some said they melted into the shadows, or they were the shadows, or they controlled the moon, or even that they could kill you from halfway across the world with nothing more than a malicious thought. All ridiculous, of course.

  Or were they?

  “A Bachiyr?” Heanua asked, eyeing the prisoner with a mixture of awe and fear. “Are you sure, Mother?”

  Boudica nodded, unable to find her voice. She had grown up hearing the stories of the Bachiyr from her father and nurse, but she always considered them to be just that; stories. Fireside tales told to children to entertain or frighten them, but nothing more. How could they be real? But as she stared at the thing in her midst, she felt the creature’s hate roll over her body like steam. The Bachiyr were not legends, after all. They were real, and they were dangerous. And now her men had captured one.

  What to do?

  We should kill it, she thought. Kill it before it escapes and kills us.

  Heanua seemed to have her own ideas. She pulled her mount close and leaned over her saddle. “We can use him,” she whispered.

  “What do you mean?” Boudica asked.

  “Drop him behind the walls of the city,” Heanua said. “Let the Romans deal with him.”

  Boudica shook her head. “I think not. That thing is far too dangerous, daughter.”

  “But think how much havoc he would wreak on the defenders of the city,” Heanua persisted. “He could do more damage in one hour than the ballistae will do all night. Just having him inside the walls will send most of the soldiers running.”

  “And then what?” Boudica replied. “Once the Bachiyr is free of the city it will kill us, as well. The Bachiyr care only for blood, they do not concern themselves with whether that blood is Roman, Iceni, or otherwise.”

  “We could make a deal with him. If he gave us his word—”

  “It would be worthless.” Boudica looked at her daughter’s eager expression. The bloodlust filled her face, making her look almost evil in the shifting firelight. She would risk anything for her revenge. While Boudica could sympathize, she was not foolish enough to allow one of the Bachiyr to go free. The thing would most certainly return to kill its attackers, and she had no desire to give it free vent to do so. “The Bachiyr have no souls,” she explained. “It would honor its word in much the same way as Nero. It would turn on us at its first opportunity.”

  “But—”

  “The matter is not subject to debate, ” the queen said. “The Bachiyr is a demon, not a weapon, and I will not set it free so it can kill us and ravage the Iceni countryside. That is my final word on it.”

  Heanua lowered her head, but Boudica noted the defiant expression on her daughter’s face. Soon, she thought. I will have to deal with her soon. But first I must deal with the Bachiyr.

  She turned toward the creature, half expecting it to have broken loose during her exchange with Heanua. Thankfully the ropes still held, and the threat the creature posed was nullified. For the moment. She couldn’t help feeling like she was staring at a caged wolf. Were it not for the bonds, the thing would probably be pacing back and forth across the cage and growling. She shivered at the idea of letting it go free. Not even to avenge
my husband, she thought.

  But how to kill it? She dared not send anyone into the cage to lop off its head. Fire was rumored to work, but what if it didn’t? What if she set the cage aflame and all she accomplished was that the creature broke free once the wood burned away. She would be in just as much trouble as if she followed Heanua’s misguided suggestion.

  She knew of only one way to be certain. There was one way to kill a Bachiyr that was the same in all the legends, but it would require an open roof on the cage. She checked the structure. It was sturdy, iron and oak. The roof was a patchwork of bars and beams, and would do little to stop a rain shower, let alone sunlight. It would do.

  “The Bachiyr will remain in its cage until the sunrise,” she proclaimed. “Tomorrow morning the sun will take care of it for us. Until then I want forty archers with arrows trained on the cage at all times. If the creature moves, shoot it.”

  Heanua started to protest, but Boudica silenced her with a raised hand. “Those are my orders. See that they are followed, daughter.”

  “Yes, my Queen,” Heanua mumbled. Her words were echoed, albeit with a great deal more enthusiasm, by the men around her as they went to find forty archers.

  Once the men had assembled on two sides of the cage, Boudica turned her attention back to the siege of Londinium. Damn it all that a wretched Bachiyr should come into their camp now. The forty archers she had stationed around his cage would be sorely missed once the ballistae finished their onslaught. Still, the outcome of the battle would be the same. Londinium could not stand against the combined might of the Iceni and the Trinovante, archers or no.

  She sat in her saddle and directed the attack, a sullen and silent Heanua at her side. Down the line of cavalry, Lannosea had ridden through the troops and assumed command of the charge. General Ogden didn’t look pleased, but there was little enough he could say. Lannie’s appointment to the cavalry carried the weight of the Queen’s command.

  She felt eyes on her back and risked a glance over her shoulder at the captured Bachiyr. The creature stared at her from its cage, its angry eyes glowing like cinders from the shadows of its face. Even from forty yards distant the thing’s malevolence filled her with dread. The sooner the sun rose in the morning, the better.

  ***

  Theron watched as the queen sat on her horse and directed the troops. Soon enough, she would have to leave her position and engage the enemy herself. Her pride and the respect of her troops would demand it. With luck, it would create an opportunity for him. If so, he would have to be ready to take advantage of it.

  The archers crowded each other on two sides of his cage. Boudica had instructed them to place two rows of ten men on the south and east sides to prevent any chance of her soldiers being injured in a crossfire should the need arise to shoot. Theron could have told her to save her breath. He would not give the archers any reason to shoot him. His escape would come from within. From the queen’s own blood.

  He had heard the girl’s request to release him into the city. After the queen’s rebuttal, the anger rolled off her daughter’s shoulders in waves so thick and hard Theron could almost see them. Every few minutes, she would look back at the cage with a mixture of longing and anger. It would only be a matter of time before she tried to set him loose on the city despite the queen’s command. Her thirst for revenge had blinded her to the dangers around her, and that would be her undoing. It would also be his freedom. If he had time, he meant to kill the queen on his way out of the camp.

  His only concern was the fact that somewhere out beyond the camp, Ramah would be looking for him. If the Blood Letter found out the Iceni had taken his prize from under him, he would storm the camp and cut a swath of bodies to reach Theron’s cage. Weak and tied to the post as he was, Theron would be unable to defend himself from the elder Bachiyr, and Ramah would gut him in less time than it would take a mortal man to blink.

  He only hoped Heanua would come to his cage first.

  ***

  Baella dragged the unconscious Ramah back through the thicket of trees, listening to the chatter of the encamped army to ensure they had not been seen. Satisfied, she deposited his prone form in a small clearing twenty or thirty paces from the edge of the trees. It wasn’t large, but it was well hidden. It would do for now.

  She would have to figure out a way to smuggle him back into the city before he awoke. It wouldn’t be easy with the whole place under attack, but her portal lay inside the city. She had built it in a tunnel beneath the streets and hidden the entrance. It should still be standing after the attack, but the sun would rise before the Iceni siege would end, and she needed to be away from the city by then. Otherwise it wouldn’t matter. She would have preferred to catch up to him inside the walls, but he was more powerful than she’d anticipated. He caught up to them too soon.

  Nothing to do for it but improvise. The Psalm she’d used on him should leave him unconscious for several hours. It was a simple enough trick, her energy simply shut down the nerves in his body. She’d learned it, and many other things, in her four thousand years, including many tricks the Council of Thirteen would pay dearly to know.

  To the abyss with the Council of Thirteen, she thought. The Father’s lapdogs. Licking his boots for scraps from his table. Not her. She had no use for The Father or his laws. That’s why they hated her so much. The Council of Thirteen would have every Bachiyr believe that they needed the structure and protection of the Council to survive, but she was living proof that they did not. The only thing holding Bachiyr society to the Council was a thin strand of bluffs and outright lies. The Father could take them all to his realm for all she cared.

  All but one.

  She glanced at Ramah, running her finger gently up the curve of his jaw. So handsome. So dark. So beautiful…and so wasted in service to the Council. She knew his history, he was the product of a love gone wrong. The Father had tricked him into servitude by using his broken heart against him. But she would set him free, and together they would spread fear through all of Bachiyr society. It might take time for him to come around to her point of view, but she was up to the task. She certainly had time to spare. Her face split into a grin as she reflected on the last four thousand years. What were a few centuries weighed against eternity?

  First, though, she had to get him back to her home, and that meant getting into Londinium under full siege. And for that, she did not have centuries. She had only a few hours. She sat her back against a tree and watched the Iceni lay waste to the city’s walls, waiting for an opportunity to present itself. Sooner or later the Iceni would cease the long range attack and send in the cavalry. That would be her chance to enter the city.

  She just had to wait.

  Thankfully, she didn’t have to wait long

  27

  Taras stood in the doorway of a crumbling baker’s shop, watching as people ran screaming by. Many of them sported flames on their arms, legs, and heads. The charred, smoking remains of the less fortunate could be seen littering the street. Most of the city’s people had left before the attack, but enough remained behind that the smell of their burning flesh hung in the air, mixing with the smoke of fires too numerous to count. Speckled among the bodies was the rubble of the city. Buildings, wagons, and merchant stands littered the street with smoking debris, many reduced to piles of charred wooden boards, their splintery points aimed in every direction.

  The store where Taras took his refuge had been all but demolished by a rock the size of a fruit cart, and flour, burst eggs, and a myriad of other ingredients covered the wreckage. Here and there, broken pieces of the baker’s trade littered the street outside the entrance. Mixing pots, spoons, jars of honey and sugar, all lay cracked and broken amidst the rubble. But the doorway stood, and it made as good a place as any for Taras to rest and evaluate his situation. It wasn’t good.

  He could not leave the city through the western gate. He would have to find another way. Fortunately, there was another way. A small tunnel used by smugglers to b
ring questionable goods into the city. Taras had found it one night while trailing a robber who’d stolen an elderly man’s coin purse. Before the man died, he told Taras everything he wanted to know. The entrance was hidden beneath the floor of a tavern on the northern side of the city and the tunnel led to a small copse of trees about a hundred paces from the north wall. The smugglers had chosen that location because the trees hid their comings and goings from the city guard. It would accommodate him, as long as he could reach it before the incoming soldiers.

  The area around him was thick with crazed people running and shouting, trying to escape. But they had no place to go, and so they simply ran up one street and down the other until fire or weapon claimed them. Here and there, officers called to their men, directing them to the walls to try and hold off the invading forces. No one was tending to the wounded or dead, and the fires were left to rage on. Defense of the city took first priority. But even from Taras’s vantage point, huddled under a doorframe, he could see it would be no good. Tonight Londinium would fall.

  The smell of blood was everywhere. It drove into his brain like a hot metal spike. Gods, he needed to feed, but there wasn’t time to track down a suitable victim amidst the chaos. There were plenty of people nearby, but they were mostly soldiers, women and children. He couldn’t bring himself to kill them. Even after thirty years, Jesus’ words still haunted him. He could kill innocent people, or he could die a slow death.