61 A.D. (Bachiyr, Book 2)

by David McAfee

  32

  Taras drove his other fist into Theron’s back, as well. The claws tore through Theron’s flesh and emerged from his chest in a spray of gore. Theron sputtered and cursed, and tried to squirm free, but Taras held him fast. “This is for Mary,” he said.

  “We had a deal, Roman,” Theron replied, a trickle of red pouring from his mouth.

  “The deal was that you would not harm either of us,” Taras replied. “Nothing was said about me killing you.”

  Theron chuckled. It came out a thick, wet gurgle. The sound of it set Taras on edge. He drove his knee into the small of Theron’s back.

  “What is funny?” he asked.

  “You,” Theron replied. “This is the second time you have attacked me when my back was turned.” He spat a wad of blood on the floor near the woman’s shoulder. “You are a true Bachiyr, after all. You just don’t realize it.”

  Taras stared at the blood pooling on the floor, then lifted his eyes to his claws. They dug into Theron’s back, leaving holes that oozed crimson in neat little lines. Was Theron right? Was he a coward? Did he only attack when Theron’s back was turned because he knew he could not defeat the older vampire in an honest fight?

  He looked at the woman lying in the dust, and his mind traveled back to Mary’s tomb. The two looked nothing alike, but he now realized why he had saved the Iceni princess. Her spirit and determination had reminded him of Mary. He could not have borne to see her come to harm, not when he could do something to help.

  But in the end, the woman owed her life to Theron, not Taras.

  Taras pulled his claws from Theron’s back and watched as the other vampire fell to his hands and knees. The wounds were not fatal—not to a Bachiyr, at least—but they would slow Theron down long enough for Taras to take the woman and leave. He had no idea where he would take her, but he would not leave her here with Theron, who would probably feed on her to heal himself if the opportunity arose.

  He reached down and picked her up, then rose to his feet. Theron remained on his hands and knees, dripping blood onto the dusty floor of the tunnel from eight holes in his chest. Already the flow had lessened. Soon the holes would close completely and Theron would fall into a healing sleep.

  “I am not you,” Taras said, “and I am not afraid of you. I would kill you right now if I didn’t owe you her life. Live on, then. Walk your black path if you like, but don’t come looking for me again. The next time we meet, I will kill you.”

  He turned to leave. The tunnel would take him outside the city and exit in a heavily wooded area. He would leave the Iceni woman near the tunnel exit, then double back to one of the secure chambers to wait for nightfall. If Theron happened by during the day, Taras would make good on his threat. If not, he had just allowed a great evil to walk free. Would Mary have understood? Maybe. Maybe not. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself.

  Theron’s weak, gravelly laughter followed him down the tunnel.

  “That was too easy, Roman,” Theron said.

  Taras ignored him and rounded the corner, the Iceni woman cradled in his arms.

  He walked the length of the tunnel, ignoring several doors along the way. These doors only opened into rooms where the smugglers hid their cache until it was time to move it into the city. He had killed the smugglers several years ago, but the rooms still contained casks of wine, spoiled exotic foods, spices from the east, and even weapons and armor. Enough wealth lay in the tunnel to make a human’s eyes grow wide at the thought of a life filled with every possible luxury, but Taras had no use for any of it, and so he left it where it was.

  There was one room in the tunnel that Taras did think useful. In it, the smugglers kept a trio of straw pallets, some dried goods, extra clothing, and most important of all, a freshwater well.

  The woman stirred in his arms, and he looked down to see she had awakened somewhat. Her half-open eyes stared up at him.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “You are safe.”

  “You’re a Roman?” Her eyes widened a bit, but still only managed to open three quarters of the way. Taras hadn’t realized he’d spoken to her in Roman, but it didn’t matter. Roman was the language most comfortable to his tongue, and thus the one he used most often.

  “I was,” he replied. Not anymore. Now I’m not even human.

  Her eyes closed. “I was a princess,” she said, her head lolling back in his arms.

  “I know.”

  She opened her eyes again. “The baby…”

  Taras shook his head, remembering the bloody mess back in the street. There had been a lump amidst all that blood. His eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. “Gone,” he said. “The baby is gone.”

  She sighed, then her head rolled backward and went limp, bouncing along as he walked. He couldn’t tell if she was happy about the baby or sad, but he supposed it didn’t really matter. Dead is dead.

  Except for me, he thought.

  33

  Lannosea awoke in a dark, moldy place, which surprised her. The last thing she remembered was lying in the street, waiting for the pain in her belly to kill her as a Roman legionary approached. She must have lost consciousness afterward, because her next recollection was of a blonde Roman carrying her through a tunnel. He’d told her she was safe, but how could she ever be safe in Roman hands? Now he was gone, and all she could see was a dark room with a wooden door. Bright light shone around the doorframe, and the sounds of birds and other animals came through it.

  She rose to her feet, amazed at the fact that nothing hurt. The brigands who’d tried to rape her had punched her repeatedly in the belly, causing the baby...

  The baby! She looked at her belly, marveling at how flat and smooth it was. She checked the area between her legs and caught her breath. The blood on her thighs was gone. Someone had cleaned her up and left her by the door.

  But who?

  The door looked solid and heavy, but the smell of clean air that flowed from under it was too great a temptation. She put her hand on the wood and shoved. It swung outward much easier than she had expected. Overbalanced, she fell through the doorway and into the foliage beyond, landing in a clump of tall grass speckled with red and yellow flowers. A bee buzzed away, angry at the interruption of its work.

  All around her were trees. Maples, birches, and oaks surrounded the door on all sides. The sounds of the woods came at her from all directions. To her left, a mouse rustled in the dried leaves. Up ahead, a falcon flapped it’s wings as it coasted through the sky. Behind her, more bees buzzed and droned in their never ending search for nectar.

  In addition to sounds, the smells of the woods came to her nose in force. The musty reek of a bird’s nest, the earthy smell of the forest floor, and the fresh, pleasant smell of green leaves filtered through the air, magnified a thousand times their normal strength. And hidden among the natural smells of the woods, like a viper in a basket of rope, was one other.

  Smoke.

  Lannosea followed the smell of smoke to the edge of the woods, marveling at how clearly she could pinpoint it. She’d never been able to do that before, at least not to such an extent. During the time she was pregnant smells had been magnified to nearly intolerable levels. Was this an extension of that, perhaps? Or would that have changed with the death of the baby? For that matter, how was she even alive?

  The Roman, she thought. He had something to do with it. I know it. But why?

  She came to the edge of the woods and peered through the trees. A huge scorch mark marred the earth about a hundred yards distant, with a few charred timbers sticking up here and there from the ashes. People moved among the timbers, collecting whatever items they found and, every once in a while, raising a sword to strike at something on the ground. She recognized their garb as that of her people.

  Which meant the scorch mark was all that remained of Londinium. The Iceni had won, her mother had razed the city. Her people were searching the rubble for survivors and putting them to the sword, just as they ha
d done in Camulodunum. Her mother’s orders. None would be spared, not even the children. Her hand instinctively went to her belly. With the curse of the Roman bastard gone, she could rejoin her people and take her place as princess of the Iceni.

  The image of her mother’s eyes came to her, then. Her mother had not tried to stop her, though she surely knew Lannosea’s plan. Why had she let her daughter march to her death? The answer came to her as soon as the question entered her mind. Honor. Her pregnancy dishonored her mother as well as herself. Lannosea’s death would have been convenient for the queen. The fact should have made her sad, but it did not.

  As another soldier raised his sword, she heard the cry of a child. The cry was silenced as the soldier brought the sword down. Even from this distance, Lannosea heard the wet thud as the sword sliced into flesh, and caught the sudden shriek as the life on the receiving end of the blade was extinguished.

  Killing children. Where was the honor in that? Her mother was driven by vengeance, not justice, and Lannosea and Heanua had gone along with her plans because neither could tell the difference. Until now.

  Lannosea shook her head. She could not go back to her people. She did not belong with them anymore. Heanua would have to assume leadership of the Iceni, if there were any of them left to lead once the Romans came. Her mother led her people onto a path that would only end either when Rome or the Iceni were destroyed. Despite the smoldering ruin that was Londinium, she knew Rome would eventually prove the victor. Suetonius was probably planning his attack even now.

  “Good luck, mother,” she whispered. “I hope you find what you need.”

  With that, Lannosea turned her back on her people and walked away. Brittania was a large country. Surely there was a place for her somewhere.

  ***

  Taras watched her go from the shadows of the tunnel. The dawn had made him weak and drowsy, but he fought the urge to sleep long enough to see the princess step through the doorway and into the woods beyond. It took several hours and used up a considerable amount of blood, but he refused to sleep until he knew she was all right. Now he knew. Theron would not catch her. It was up to her what she would do next.

  He had done his part. She was safe.

  He thought of Theron, and Ramah, and Baella, and all the other Bachiyr in the world who would love to see him dead, and felt a stab of self pity. The princess might be safe, but he would never be able to say the same for himself.

  He reached into his pack and pulled out the strip of blue cloth, running it between his fingers and bringing it up to his nose. He liked to imagine that he could still smell Mary’s perfume on it, but it was a lie. The cloth smelled like the inside of his sack. Nothing more. At times like this, he wished he could still cry.

  When sleep took him, he was still holding the scrap of cloth to his face.

  ***

  Theron stumbled from the doorway and into the night. The sounds of the forest surrounded him. Owls, frogs, and crickets sang their songs of night to him as he trudged through the damp foliage toward the sound of voices. Mixed in with the smells of the forest was another smell. Blood. From two sources.

  Lannosea and Taras had both passed this way.

  Do not come looking for me again, Taras had said. The next time we meet, I will kill you.

  No chance of that, he thought. I am finished with you, Roman. Theron had initially considered chasing after the tall Roman. However, his weakened state and his practical nature stopped him. He would gain nothing by going after Taras again, and in his current condition, he would probably lose. Better to keep going and live long enough to experiment with this new method of using blood. He had a feeling that altering the thickness of his wrists was just the beginning. How much more could he do that the Council had never taught anyone? The implications were staggering.

  Perhaps someday I will come for you again after all, Taras.

  But not any time soon. First, he would need to live long enough to develop this newfound power, and in order to ensure that, he needed blood. Lots of it. He’d lost quite a bit to Taras’s claws in the tunnel, and he would need extra blood to use in his experiments. So he continued walking among the trees, looking for any sign of people.

  Before long, he spotted a flickering orange glow among the trees.

  A campfire.

  He stalked to the edge of the fire’s light, stopping on the edge of a clearing in the woods. Ahead, two men sat drinking around the fire. Neither of them carried anything so much as a sack of clothes. Wherever they had fled, they had done so in a hurry. The clothes on their backs were tattered and black with ash, and both of them bore numerous scrapes and scratches on their arms, legs, and faces. Running through the woods, Theron realized. Probably survivors of the Iceni attack.

  Both men were injured, by the looks of it. One sported a bloodstained bandage around his head, and the other carried his left arm in a makeshift sling. They looked hungry and thirsty. They had probably not eaten since the day before. How they had managed to sneak past the Iceni surrounding the city was a mystery, especially unarmed. But they were alive, and they had blood.

  That was all he needed.

  When he was finished, he felt much better. The blood of two humans was more than enough to heal his wounds, with plenty left over for experimentation. He turned to the west. The Iceni army had gone that way, he was sure of it. Doubtless they would be marching down the long road the Britons called Watling Street. They could not be far away, probably less than a day ahead. Armies tend to move slowly.

  Theron turned to follow them.

  After all, he had made a deal with the princess.

  ***

  Herris sat in an uncomfortable chair in Ramah’s private chambers, waiting for his second in command to regain his senses. The chair was hard, coarse stone, purely functional and utilitarian, much like all Ramah’s appointments. Nothing but the bare essentials, and even then only items chosen for their function rather than their appearance. By contrast, Herris’ own chambers were soft and plush, with every conceivable luxury. Ramah could have furnished his chambers with more style, but opted to keep the place as Spartan as possible. Stark, much like the Bachiyr himself.

  When Ramah began to stir, Herris rose from the chair and stood by the side of the bed, watching as his old friend opened his eyes. Ramah sat bolt upright, reaching clawed hands for Herris’ throat almost too fast for the leader of the Bachiyr to see. But Herris, no novice to melee combat, threw up his right hand and knocked Ramah’s fingers aside.

  “Calm, Ramah,” Herris said. “It is only me.”

  Recognition dawned in Ramah’s eyes, and he withdrew his hands and put them at his side. “Headcouncil Herris,” he said. “I did not know it was you.”

  “I should think not,” Herris replied.

  “My apologies.”

  “Unnecessary.” Herris waved his hand to dismiss the apology. “Do you know where you are?”

  Ramah looked around the room. “I am in my chambers. How did I get here?”

  “What is the last thing you remember?”

  “I was trailing the traitor Theron in Londinium, as well as that blasted Roman, Taras. But Baella was there. She freed Theron while I battled her minions. I remember that Theron was captured by an army outside the city, and I was standing by a tree trying to think of a way to go in and get him when... when...”

  “When what?”

  “That’s where my memory stops,” Ramah said. “It must have been Baella. Only she could have snuck up behind me so effectively.”

  Herris leaned over, putting his arms on Ramah’s shoulders. “Did you see her?”

  “What?”

  “Baella,” Herris said. “Did you see her? Could you describe her?”

  Ramah blinked, then looked at his feet. “No,” he replied. “I did not see her.”

  “That’s too bad,” Herris said, dropping his hands. “We would have liked to have the description to give to our Enforcers.”

  “If I had captured Theron,
he could have told us,” Ramah said bitterly.

  “Perhaps,” Herris said, and turned to go. “Rest a while, then visit The Larder. I had the hunters bring in a fresh group of humans tonight, so there should still be plenty for you when you are ready.”

  Ramah nodded, but didn’t look up. Herris couldn’t believe it, he’d never seen Ramah this way. He looked so lost, almost... defeated. But it couldn’t be helped, the disorientation Ramah felt was part of the spell she had used on him. The effects would have made him more tractable and open to suggestion when he awoke. Herris knew; he had taught the bitch the spell himself over four thousand years ago. The strange feeling would would wear off in a few nights and Ramah would be fine, Herris was just glad the Blood Letter had awakened to see him and not Baella.

  He left Ramah’s chambers and closed the massive oak and steel door behind him. Only when he was outside did he allow himself a relieved smile.

  Ramah hadn’t seen her face. He didn’t know.

  His secret was safe.

  His mood as he left Ramah’s chambers was a great deal better than it had been when he arrived.

  Epilogue

  Mistress Baella walked through the door to her keep. Feyo stood just inside the entryway, a large glass of red liquid in his hand. Blood for the Mistress, altered via a special psalm—developed by Mistress Baella herself—to still be viable long after the host was dead. She kept a store of it downstairs. She took the glass and quaffed it, then stormed through the room. Feyo followed close at her heels in case she needed him.

  “It did not go well?” he asked.

  Baella turned around and reached up to grab him by the shoulder, then she pulled, forcing him to bend down to her height. Her nails dug into his cheek as she grabbed his face and shoved it to the side, then buried her fangs in his neck.

  Feyo did not struggle at all. They had been in this position many times before. He knew his role and dropped to his knees to give her a better angle. It only hurt for a moment, and afterward he slept for a night and a day as his body recuperated. But when he woke he would be as strong as five men, and faster than a deer. It was a good trade.