David McAfee - 61 A.D.

But as soon as it faded a bit, he shoved again.

Not yet, he thought.

When the pain flared through his chest again, he clenched his jaw shut and pushed still harder against the floor, rising off it in a haze of blood and pain. His vision blurred, and more than once his mind threatened to shut down, but he forced himself to focus on the task at hand, working his way up the metal pole one slick, red, painful inch at a time.

I will not die yet.

Ramah stood in the empty street, looking one way and then the other. Both showed him nothing. The dusty streets of Londinium showed no sign of his quarry’s passing. Theron and Baella could be in any direction, at any distance. He’d never locate them with his eyes alone, he would have to use a web psalm, though he dreaded the subsequent loss of blood. He would simply have to take some from Theron before he killed him.

Ramah stood in the middle of the street and closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the task at hand. He cast a mental web around his current position, and slowly expanded it to include the outlying area. The web kept growing, until it eventually covered an area one quarter the size of the city with him at its center. Once it was set, he poked along the filaments with mental fingers and willed his quarry to touch one of them. The strands were limited in their ability to gather information. He could only search for one person. Other individuals would merely register as a slight tickle of the web, but when the object of his search crossed a thread, he would know immediately.

He’d never seen Baella, but he’d known Theron for nearly a thousand years. It was easy enough to conjure an image in his mind of the former Enforcer. Since they were traveling together, he only needed to locate the one to find them both. Or so he hoped.

He pushed the strands out further, slowly feeling his way across the city streets. Dozens of small tingles registered on the web, but none more than a slight twinge. They were the normal humans who had remained behind. He forced himself to remain calm and still, letting the web expand at a slow, steady pace. Patience, he counseled himself. It would not do to drop his web and run randomly through the streets, he would never find them that way, and he knew it. It should not take much longer before There! A bright flash touched his web about half a mile to the east, back toward the gate. It could only be Theron. Ramah turned toward the flash and concentrated only on the strands of the web in its immediate vicinity. The rest of the web withered, lacking the mental energy to keep itself open.

The web psalm was a strong tool in the Bachiyr’s arsenal, and very useful, but it also drained a great deal of mental energy. Ramah could feel his body burning blood to keep the web active, but he couldn’t drop it yet. He needed Theron to cross another strand. The relation of the new strand to Theron’s previous position would tell Ramah exactly which direction the renegade was moving, making it a simple matter to cut him off.

There it was again! Still headed toward the city gate, and moving fast. They must know I am coming for them. Ramah dropped the web and ran. Theron and Baella were trying to leave the city. Ramah could probably catch them before they made the city gate, but it suited his purpose to let them leave. Once outside the city walls, there would be fewer humans, and fewer witnesses. Witnesses were messy. Easy enough to kill one, but not so easy to dispose of several dozen. Far better to have none at all.

Ramah slowed his pace, wanting to let Theron and Baella get far enough away from the city gate that there would be no one around once he caught up to them. Up ahead, a lone woman stood in the flickering light of a single lamp. A prostitute, judging by her garish attire. The sight reminded him of the energy he’d burned creating and maintaining the web. He would probably have to make another one once he left the city to locate the pair of renegades again, which meant he would need more blood.

The woman’s appearance proved most fortunate for the hungry vampire.

Taras clenched his teeth, fighting the nausea and blackness that threatened to overwhelm him. His entire world had been reduced to blinding pain as his body slid up, inch by agonizing inch, toward the end of the pole. His hands slipped in the gore beneath him, so he tried grasping the metal rod instead, with much the same result. Every time he gained a few inches, he would lose his grip and slide back down several more. It didn’t help matters that his hands shook with pain, making it difficult to grasp anything.

He slid back down to the floor, looking up at the two-foot shaft of metal through his chest, red and slick with his own blood. His vision grew more hazy with every passing second, and a sense of dread settled into his mind. How long had Ramah been gone? How soon before he came back? If he didn’t get off this damn pole soon, he would find himself at the mercy of that black devil, and from what he knew of Ramah, mercy was not one of his failings.

I will not die here, he told himself, and tried again. He grasped the end of the pole and pulled himself upward off the floor. After several attempts, he found himself at the tip of the pole. No longer able to pull himself forward, he reached behind him, trying to grasp the pole from his back and push forward. This was the tricky part, the angle was all wrong, and he invariably lost his grip and slid back down to the floor.

When he felt the metal in his hand, he tightened his grip, straining his muscles as he focused all his remaining strength on holding the pole. Then he reached behind with his other hand and grasped the pole just beneath his back. Almost there. With his hands on the metal, he closed his eyes and pushed. Up, up, and up, he slowly rose, feeling the rod slide painfully through his body. He almost blacked out, but fought it off, knowing that to faint now would only find him back on the floor again. When he reached the limit of his arms, he inched his hands upward and started again. He was close, he had to be. How thick was his chest? How much of the pole remained? How much longer could he hold off the gathering darkness?

One more push.

Then he was free. His back came away from the rod with a wet, sticky pop, and Taras twisted to the side and fell to the stone floor. He lay on his back on the cold floor, wet with his own blood, and stared up at the shaft of metal. It glistened red and slick in the pale light of the room. The smell of blood was everywhere.

The hole in his chest began to itch as his body tried to repair the damage, but without blood the healing would be slow. He needed to find food, and fast.

Taras put his feet under him and grabbed the pole. His hand slipped as he tried to grip it, but he managed to hold on and adjust his grip. With a grunt of pain, he rose to his feet. His vision swam as a wave of vertigo hit him, almost sending him back to the floor. Taras steadied himself, forcing his mind to clear. Ramah could be on his way back right now. Taras had not spent the last hour pulling his body up a metal pole in his chest just to faint now and allow Ramah to capture him again. He stood on shaky legs, willing himself to remain upright and conscious. Once the images of the room stayed more or less stationary, he took a tentative step away from the spot where he almost died. Again.

Damn the Bachiyr. He’d never wanted to be one of them, and he’d never asked for this. Should he somehow manage to escape Londinium with his life, he vowed he would never again entangle himself in their affairs. Let them all kill each other, he would have nothing to do with any of them. Taras had come too close to death too many times, all he wanted now was to get away and stay away.