by David McAfee
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.
He wished he could have gotten here sooner. The moon was already low, leaving only a couple of hours before dawn broke over the eastern horizon. It would take a very lucky break for him to spot either Taras or Theron by then. Londinium wasn’t Rome or Athens, but it was not small by any stretch of the word, and the many people crowding the streets did not help. He estimated he would probably spend several days wandering around the city before he found another Bachiyr, but he was wrong.
Less than ten minutes later he turned into an alley and found not one, but two.
9
Theron stepped out of another tavern-his fifth of the evening-and froze. An icy shiver flashed up his spine and pinned him to the spot. Across the street, facing away from him, a figure clad in a dark cloak stared into an alley. Theron recognized him instantly, even though he hadn’t seen him for nearly thirty years. There was no mistaking the graceful, deadly movements or the close-cropped, curly black hair. Even from across the street, Theron could feel the vast power of the Bachiyr councilor.
Ramah the Blood Letter had found him.
Theron had known all along it was only a matter of time. No one could hide from the council forever. The world just wasn’t big enough. Still, he thought he had more time. Another few decades, at least. Had he been that careless? He didn’t think so, but then, you could never be too careful where the Council of Thirteen was concerned.
He watched, waiting for the elder vampire to turn around and see him. How would he escape this time? A frown creased his face. He wouldn’t escape. Ramah would not let Theron slip through his fingers again. Theron would be lucky to live long enough to receive the Council’s punishment. He stood, frozen in place, and waited for the worst.
But Ramah didn’t turn. His attention remained focused in the dark recesses of the alley across the street. And when he stepped into it, Theron didn’t bother to question his luck. He backed away from the tavern and ducked around the corner of a building. Once out of sight, he turned and ran as fast as he could.
Taras or no Taras, if Ramah was in the city, then Theron would find someplace else to be. And fast.
He ran down the street, pushing aside any of the town’s residents who got in his way. The crowds were starting to thin; most of the people who were leaving had already gone. He headed for the city’s main gate. The road outside the gate led, eventually, back to the coast. He would not be able to get there tonight, but numerous houses and cottages dotted the roads in Britannia, it would be simple enough to find a place to spend the day. Then tomorrow night he would make the port town and arrange passage back to Spain. It wouldn’t cost him much. He could convince most any captain to take him for free.
Fear is a powerful bargaining tool.
He turned one last corner, ready to make a beeline for the gate, when he crashed painfully into something solid and unyielding. Theron fell on his back, sputtering curses at himself. When he regained his senses, he saw a figure standing over him, silhouetted by torchlight. He didn’t have time to kill the stranger, so instead he tried to g
et to his feet.
He made it halfway up when someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms behind his back. Theron snarled, all thoughts of leaving these people alive gone from his mind in the instant it took him to realize he was about to be robbed. He tensed his muscles, preparing himself to rip the arms of the person behind him off and use them to beat the person in front of him to death.
But he couldn’t pull free. He struggled and squirmed, but his assailant was far too strong. It took him a moment to realize what that meant, and indeed, when he forced himself to calm down he heard the figure in front of him-a woman-chanting a psalm. He didn’t recognize it, but he could guess well enough its purpose. She was using magic to immobilize him.
“Well, Taras,” she said when she finished. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“Taras?” Theron asked. The grip on his arm tightened, and the joint in his elbow twisted painfully to the side.
Then the woman stepped away from the torch and Theron saw her face. For the second time that evening, he froze. Theron knew who she was instantly. He had only seen her face once before, back in Alexandria, but he would never forget it. To his knowledge he was the only Enforcer to have ever looked upon the face of the most wanted Bachiyr in the history of his race and live to tell the tale. Back then he had vowed to kill her if he ever saw her again, even though he doubted he ever would. To see her here, now, and with Ramah only a few blocks away. It couldn’t be coincidence.
“You,” he said.
“You remember me,” she said. “I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be,” Theron retorted. “I also remember my dog. She was a bitch, too.”
The woman smiled. “This is going to be fun.” She reached out her hand, bringing it to his cheek. Just before she touched him, Theron saw the sparks crackling up and down her palm. Another psalm he didn’t know. Damn.
She touched her palm to his face, and for an instant Theron felt a jolt of electricity sizzle through his body. Then the world went dark.
