David McAfee - 61 A.D.

The creature turned its head toward the onetime Roman legionary. If Theron didn’t know better, he’d have sworn the thing smiled. It stepped slowly toward Taras, walking with an unholy grace, and pressed its larvae-covered right hand on the vampire’s forehead. Theron knew what would come next, he’d seen it hundreds of times.

Taras's scream filled the small chamber, bouncing off the walls in a high pitched wail that stung Theron's hypersensitive ears. Ordinarily, he would have enjoyed the other Bachiyr's pain, especially if he was the cause of it. But it was hard to smile when he knew he was probably next.

“Hello, Theron,” said a voice from the doorway. He didn’t have to turn his head to know who it belonged to. He’d heard that voice regularly for over nine hundred years. Of course, that had been in another lifetime, when he was the hunter and not the hunted.

“Hello Ramah,” he said, leaving off the customary Councilor. He turned his head to face the elder Bachiyr. “What brings you to Londinium?”

Ramah laughed, then his eyes flitted toward the Lost One, who was still working on Taras. The Roman’s screams had died down to a pathetic whimper. Having worked around the Lost Ones for centuries, Theron knew their capabilities as well as any. He could almost feel pity for his rogue progeny. Almost. But since it was pretty much Taras’s fault they were in this situation, he couldn’t quite manage it.

“I can’t believe I found both of you here. Together,” Ramah said. “This couldn’t have been any easier.”

“Go to hell.”

“Not today.” Ramah crossed the room and placed his hands on either side of Theron’s head. Theron winced as the elder’s claws elongated and dug into his skin. Ramah forced Theorn’s face up, probably so he could look him in the eye. Theron would have tried to resist, but he had no leverage and very little strength. “You will get to Hell long before I do,” Ramah promised. “But not before you beg me to send you there.”

With that, Ramah’s face hardened, and a sudden jolt of pain slammed into Theron’s body through his temples. All sight and sound vanished in an instant, leaving him in a world of bright red pain. He choked back a scream, certain his head had split open but determined not to give Ramah the satisfaction. The fire raged inside his head for what seemed like hours, though in truth it couldn’t have been that long.

When it finally eased, Ramah was laughing.

“No scream, Theron?”

Theron reiterated his earlier invitation.

“I am going to enjoy this,” Ramah said.

This time when the pain hit, it felt like a flaming boulder had been forced into Theron’s skull. He clenched his fists and his eyes shut, but the flames licked through the insides of his mind like a predator, clawing and eating away at his brain until all rational thought had fled. It didn’t take long for him to break his silence, giving Ramah the scream he desired.

Boudica watched the sun break over the Eastern horizon. Dawn. Time to march.

Behind her, the army of Iceni and Trinovante prepared for their journey. Her advance scouts had reported killing over a dozen Roman legionaries in the outlying fields. Some of them had been caught spying, while others were simply passing through but could not be allowed to continue after seeing the army camped so close to Londinium. Additionaly, dozens of civilians who’d been spotted in the area had been captured, interrogated, and put to the sword. Boudica was taking no chances.

Even with all their precautions, she knew her troops could not catch every single person who’d caught sight of her army. It mattered little enough, however. The prize was the city, and she meant to have it. The soldiers who remained in Londinium would not be able to withstand her onslaught, and the Roman insult would be avenged this very night. She turned to regard her troops. Cyric stood at the head of the army, calling orders to his officers, who in turn shouted orders to their men. Soon they would be ready to move. The journey would take the entire day, but that suited her just fine. Her intent was to attack at night when the city’s defenses would be at their lowest.

“It will be a long day,” her daughter said. Boudica turned to regard Heanua, uncertain of her meaning.

“Have you lost your will for this?” she asked. “Like Lannosea?”

Heanua’s eyes snapped left, and she stared hard into Boudica’s face. “Hardly. I wish we were there now. I can’t wait to gut the people of Londinium.”

The queen smiled. She should have known better. “Don’t worry. We’ll be there tonight.”

“It isn’t soon enough,” Heanua replied, and turned her face West, toward their objective. “Even if we arrive in five minutes, it will not be soon enough.”

Boudica noted that her daughter’s knuckles had gone white on the pommel of her sword, and nodded her approval. Heanua wanted this even more than she did. She supposed that made sense. Her indignities had not broken her spirit like they had Lannosea’s. Instead they had molded her into a fiery, merciless warrior.

Thinking about Lannosea reminded her that she had neither seen nor heard from her younger daughter all morning. The girl should be here with me right now, she thought, anxious to avenge herself on some Roman scum.

“Have you seen your sister?”

Heanua shook her head. “Not this morning. She is probably still asleep.”

“It’s almost time to move,” the gravel in her own voice surprised her. She hadn’t thought she could be so angry. “Why is she not standing here with us?”

Heanua shook her head again. “I don’t know.”

“Find her,” Boudica snapped. “If she sleeps, wake her. If not, drag her to my tent. I want to see her within the hour.”

“I am not your personal messenger, mother,” Heanua said. “Send someone else to collect Lannie.”

Boudica rounded on her eldest daughter, her face flushed and warm. “You will do as I say, child!” she spat. “Or you will watch the conquest of Londinium from one of the cages!”

The cages were just that; mobile cells the Trinovante had brought with them to house prisoners. Each one was six feet by six feet, with stout wooden floors and iron bars set wide enough apart to allow for throwing rotten fruit and buckets of excrement. The Trinovante liked to humiliate their prisoners prior to killing them. Boudica had no intention of taking prisoners, but the Trinovante leaders wanted the cages brought along anyway, and she needed their help. They rolled along on wooden wheels behind the bulk of the army, pulled by oxen.

“Mother, you can’t-” Heanua began.

Boudica cut her off. “I can and will. I will have one of the cages brought to the front lines just for you, so you can view the taking of the city from behind its iron bars.”

A dark look flashed across Heanua’s pale features, but Boudica held her ground, daring her to disobey. For a moment, she seemed like she might argue further, but then her daughter pulled her hand from her sword and swept into a curt bow. “Yes, my Queen,” she said, and turned back to the encampment.

I’ll have to watch that one, Boudica thought. Heanua was not next in line for the throne of the Iceni, but she was not far behind. If anything happened to Boudica, Heanua would assume the leadership of her people. While Heanua would no doubt make a fine, strong Queen, Boudica wasn’t ready to give up her rule just yet.

She turned and headed back for her own tent, which would be disassembled within an hour. Along the way, she pondered the strangeness of having one daughter with no ambition at all, and another who would probably try to kill her in the coming days.

It is a strange world in which I live. Strange or not, Heanua would never have considered disobeying her queen before the Roman attack. Those bastards had not only taken her husband’s kingdom from her, they had taken her daughters, as well.