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.”
“Is her malady contagious?”
“We don’t know. But it’s possible. How would you look, mother, leading the army from your sick bed?”
Heanua was right. Boudica wanted to go see her daughter, but getting sick herself would only harm the campaign. It would have to wait until after the attack of Londinium. Once the city was destroyed, she would go see Lannosea and find out exactly what was going on. The girl had been acting strange lately, anyway.
“Very well,” she said. “You and I will lead the attack on Londinium. Lannie will rest. For now.”
Boudica turned back and walked to where her generals were gathered, no doubt going over a few last minute strategies. Cyric was there, as well, going on about the next city on their list. Always thinking ahead, that one. That’s why she liked him so much. That and the fact that he was obviously smitten with Lannosea.
She smiled. He would make a fine king someday.
Heanua watched her mother walk away, relieved for the time being that she wouldn’t have to come up with a bigger lie. What she’d told Boudica was partially true. Lannie was ill. Sort of. And she hadn’t told anyone. Of course, pregnancy wasn’t contagious, but she couldn’t think of another way to keep her mother from visiting the tent. At least she had bought a little time to think.
She climbed into her saddle and urged her mount forward under the guise of inspecting the troops. They didn’t require inspection, and indeed, many of them could scarcely be called soldiers. Her mother had assembled a vast horde of Iceni and Trinovante warriors, but compared to the disciplined ranks of the Romans, they were little more than a gathering of barbarians.
Heanua had seen the Roman Legion in action. Orderly rows and rank upon rank of organized men who knew their role and followed orders without question. It was a system that had seen Rome expand to the great empire it was today. Looking at her own people, she could only shake her head. Presently, two men fought over a wineskin even though they were to march in short order. A little farther on, a group of men snored loudly as their captain tried to wake them, the air around them smelled strongly of wine and mead. Not far away a man and woman lay naked on a mat of furs, their hands and mouths exploring each other’s bodies while a group of onlookers urged them on.
This was her army.
Heanua sighed. Her people were ragged and undisciplined, and the Romans were better armed and had the experience of generations of military learning. The Iceni had only one advantage, but it was a good one.
Strength of numbers.
Boudica had assembled a massive force of over a hundred thousand warriors, and more joined every day, attracted by the thought of plunder and conquest. The ground shook under her feet when her army marched, and the land behind them was bare and brown, the grass trampled dead by innumerable feet, hooves, and wagons. Among her people, it was the greatest such army ever gathered, and it would roll over Londinium like an ox over an anthill.
And Lannosea would not be part of it.
It felt strange to know she would ride into battle without her sister. Before the attack, Lannie had been a fierce warrior, besting women and men alike. But for the last five months she’d been timid and quiet, hardly daring to leave her tent. At least Heanua now understood why.