David McAfee - 61 A.D.

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.

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.”