61 A.D. b-2

by David McAfee

  “I don’t want it,” Lannosea said. “The devil take it, I never wanted it. I tried to kill it, early on, but the potion failed. Now I don’t know what to do. I still have five more months before delivery, and I’m only going to get bigger. I’ve sent away all my servants so no one would know, but that won’t last much longer. Soon I will be stuck in this tent, or worse, hiding somewhere like a criminal.”

  “How are you going to hide this from mother?” Heanua asked. “She’s waiting for us to lead the attack on Londinium.”

  “I don’t know,” Lannosea replied. “I tried to strap on my leathers, but they don’t fit anymore.” At this, Lannosea fell into another round of sobbing. Heanua looked at her shoes, a small twinge of remorse worming its way into her breast. She should have known better. Her sister wasn’t a coward. She had never been afraid to fight. But she was afraid of what the Queen would say.

  “Stay here,” Heanua said. “And stay hidden. I have to get back to the front line. We’ll figure out what to do about this when I return.”

  “What about mother?”

  “I’ll handle mother. You just make sure no one sees you like this. Dress in something loose and flowing, and don’t leave this tent.”

  “People will think I’m a coward.”

  “People will think what mother tells them to think.”

  “And what will that be?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Heanua said, turning to leave. “But I hope I can think of something by the time I reach her.”

  ***

  Ramah returned from hunting. Over his shoulder he carried the body of an elk, recently killed and waiting to be cleaned. His talk with his mother hadn’t gone as well as he had hoped.

  “She’s bewitched you,” she had said when he told her of his plans to marry her. “The filthy Chalika has cast her spell on you.”

  Ramah had struck her then. His own mother. His hand sent her to the floor. If he lived a thousand years, he would never forget the shocked look on her face. He’d left her sitting on the floor, rubbing her face with her hand, to go hunting. He’d needed something to calm his nerves.

  How could he strike her? His mother!

  He would apologize when he saw her next. But he would not relent. He would marry Neeya with or without his mother’s permission.

  I’m sorry, mother, he thought, but you can’t make this decision for me. I won’t let you.

  The village was quiet. Much too quiet. And empty. No children played in the streets. No men stood and talked of the day, and no women walked through the camp carrying sticks or water or blankets. As far as he could tell, he was the only one in the village. Ramah stood at the entrance to his mother’s hut and listened.

  Voices came to him, quiet and distant. They seemed to come from the eastern edge of the village, where the fertile lands gave way to the Living Sands.

  “No,” Ramah said. He dropped the elk and ran. There was only one reason the entire village would gather at the edge of the Living Sands. They meant to banish someone to the Wastes.

  And he had a pretty good idea who.

  “Mother!” he shouted as he ran. “Don’t do this!”

  But as he neared the edge of his village, he saw his people gathered in a group. Several men spotted him and came out to meet him. He tried to shout a greeting, but they grabbed him by his arms and dragged him forward. As the crowd parted in front of them, he saw his mother standing on the edge of the Living Sands. The red mark of his hand was still plainly visible on her cheek.

  Neeya was nowhere to be seen.

  “Mother, what have you done?” he asked when he reached her. In response, she spat at his feet and slapped his face.

  Ramah woke with a start, bolting upright on his makeshift bed of dried straw. The small bundle of cloth he’d used as a pillow was wet with blood. He picked it up and wiped away the tiny red trails from his cheeks. It had become a ritual of late. Every evening he woke with blood leaking from his eyes.

  The dream. Every day this week it had come to him. Why? It was bad enough when he only dreamed once a month, but every damned day? What was the reason? He took the cloth away from his face, surprised to note the tremors that rocked his normally steady hands. Maybe he should see Lannis, after all.

  He rose from the bed, shaking the memory from his head. The Living Sands had burned, like walking on coals…

  No!

  He had things to do tonight. Theron and Taras waited. He would have liked to kill them the night before, but by the time the Lost One finished with the Roman, the weakling had lost consciousness. Ramah needed to ask him a few questions before he allowed the bastard to die, and the sun was almost up, so he’d left him there, hanging from the chains in the wall.

  But not tonight.

  Ramah stood, shaking the last wisps of the dream from his mind as he set himself to the task at hand. Tonight Taras and Theron would both die, and he could return to the Halls of the Bachiyr and pay Lannis a visit. She might be able to cure him of the dreams, but she would want something in return.

  Lannis always did.

  15

  “Goodbye, Theron,” Taras said, his claws sprouting from his fingertips. “I’d stay longer but I want to be gone by the time Ramah returns.” Taras stuck the tip of one claw under Theron’s jaw. Smart, Theron thought. He doesn’t dare get too close to my teeth.

  A soft flicker of movement caught Theron’s eye just as the claw pierced his flesh. There was a brief flash of light, then Taras fell to the floor. Standing behind him was…

  “Baella.” Theron said. “I might have known.”

  “Hello, Theron,” Baella said. Her deep, husky tone igniting memories of Alexandria. “Have you been well?”

  “I was fine until you walked in.”

  “Ramah will return soon.”

  “Then have a seat. I’m sure he will be pleased to see you.”

  “You’re in no position, Ex-Enforcer, to be an ass.” Baella winked at him and tossed back her ebony hair. Her dark eyes sparkled with mischief. “Will you come with me or should I leave you to the Councilor?”

  Theron chuckled. “Just kill me here. “That will anger Ramah almost as much as me escaping.”

  “Why would I kill you?“ Baella asked. “I went to a lot of trouble to get you here, you know. You could at least be grateful.”

  “I came here on my own. Looking for that one,” Theron nodded toward Taras’s prone form. “You had nothing to do with it.”

  “And how did you know he was here?”

  “I learned it from a drunken human, just before I killed him.”

  “Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?” Baella winked. “That a drunken human with knowledge of Taras’s whereabouts would just happen to fall into your lap in Spain.”

  “Not really. I keep my ears open, and…” Theron eyed her, taking in the confident smirk and arrogant stance. “How did you know I found him in Spain?”

  Baella smiled even wider. “Several months ago I sent out twenty humans to different areas of the world. Each of them was told to spread the news of a tall, yellow-haired man who attacked them in Londinium, then report back to me. Of the twenty, only one did not return. The one I sent to Spain.”

  Theron shook his head. He should have known. This whole thing was just a trap to get him to Londinium.

  “But why?” he asked. “What do you want from me?”

  Baella’s eyes sparkled. She leaned down to whisper in his ear, although it seemed like a wasted gesture on her part since they were alone except for Taras, who still lay unconscious on the floor. “Ramah.”

  ***

  Ramah threw aside the limp body of yet another renegade Bachiyr, his third such encounter of the evening. Like the others, this one was very weak, as though she had just been created. They seemed to crawl out of the dark alleys whenever he approached, almost as if they were looking for him.

  Ramah had left Theron and Taras under the watchful eyes of the Lost One at dawn, and had gone underground to sleep t
hrough the day. Upon awakening at twilight, he’d set out to gather the two renegades and take them before the Council, but almost immediately he’d been attacked by the first of the renegade Bachiyr. And then a pair of them together, and now this one. He was not far from where he’d slept, and already he’d had to dispatch four vampires.

  What in the name of The Father was going on? Who was creating all these damn renegades? And why so many so fast? None of the ones he’d killed tonight could have been more than a few days old. It would take a very powerful vampire to create so many in such a short time. Could Theron have been producing an army of minions? It seemed unlikely. Not even Theron would have that much energy. There were only a handful of Bachiyr who could pull off something like that, and most of them were on the Council of Thirteen.

  Could another Councilor be behind this? Ramah didn’t know, but as he walked away from his latest victim, he vowed to find out.

  He stepped away from the alley into the darkened street, headed for the building where he’d stashed Theron and Taras. No lights were lit in this part of the city, which is why he chose it. Only the moon lit his way, but it was more than enough. Centuries of living in the dark, combined with his already enhanced vision, made the night seem bright and vivid. He could count the pebbles in the road from a hundred paces away, not that he would bother.

  Right now his keen eyesight detected movement in the shadows ahead and to his left. He walked on, studying the movement in the alley from the corner of his eye, acting oblivious. If this was another damn Bachiyr, he The attack came from his right. A dark blur sped to his side and jabbed something sharp into his abdomen. Ramah stifled a yell and whirled to face the newcomer. A ragged Bachiyr stared back at him, gleefully chuckling as he twisted the knife in Ramah’s flesh. The creature’s canines gleamed red in the dim light, as though it had just fed. Its breath stank of blood, but Ramah noted the blood wasn’t human. What had it been feeding on? Animal blood would do little for a Bachiyr. It was too weak.

  Ramah reached down, grabbed the Bachiyr’s wrist in his other hand, and started to pull back. The renegade’s face tightened with the strain, but he was no match for Ramah’s strength, and the blade began to slide out of the wound. Just as Ramah pulled the knife from his side, he was hit from behind by something heavy and solid. The movement in the alley. So, the two renegades had decided to team up.

  Ramah reached behind him and grabbed the new Bachiyr by a handful of cloth, then he bent at the waist, twisted to the side, and yanked on the creature’s clothes. Despite the poor quality of the cloth, the seam held, and the renegade flew off his back and landed in the street with a thud and a crack. He had just enough time to note that this one was female before it sprang to its feet and rushed back at him.

  Ramah, his other hand still wrapped around the first renegade’s wrist, spun to the ground, sweeping out with his right leg and taking the male’s feet out from under him. The male sprawled to the cobbles in front of his companion, who tripped over his prone form. As she fell, Ramah reached out, claws extended, and jabbed her in the gut. She howled in pain as his claws tore into her flesh, reminding him to drop a Psalm of Silence on the pair. In his peripheral vision, he noted the male rising to his feet. Soon he would be fighting them both in close combat. It was time to end this.

  Ramah jabbed his other hand into the woman’s throat and twisted, popping tendons and separating the vertebrae. Due to the magical silence, he could not hear the flesh tearing, but he could see and smell the spray of blood as her head separated from her shoulders. There was no rhythmic spurting of blood, as with a human victim, only the single burst as the vessel tore, like stabbing on overfilled wineskin, and several droplets splattered him in the face.

  The body fell to the street, oozing crimson onto the cobbles.

  Ramah tossed the head aside just as the male barreled into him, sending them both to the ground. The renegade’s mouth was open, screaming something Ramah could not hear, as he pummeled the prone Councilor with his fists. The blows stung, but they were not strong enough to do any serious damage. Ramah reached his arms around his attacker’s head and locked them around his neck, pulling him close. From there, he shifted his legs for leverage, and tried to roll over.

  He felt a sudden pain in his throat and realized the Bachiyr was taking advantage of his new position by biting him. Ramah cursed himself for his stupidity even as he felt some of his blood draining away. He released the thing’s head and jabbed his claws deep into its side just below the ribcage. His opponent let go immediately, and Ramah put his other hand on the thing’s chest and shoved upward, going for strength now rather than technique.

  The other vampire flew off him and landed in a heap a few feet away. Ramah shot to his feet and readied himself for another attack, but the new Bachiyr had not yet risen. Instead, it lay writhing in the street. When it rolled to its side, Ramah saw why.

  The hole in the creature’s gut was massive, much worse than Ramah had thought. Ramah credited it to the subconscious fear all Bachiyr must feel when their blood is being stolen, similar to adrenaline in living humans. He simply hadn’t realized his own strength and had practically gutted the creature.

  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.”