61 A.D.

30

Lannosea walked unsteadily through the city, her adrenaline fading with every step, taking her hope and sense of purpose with it. She had come through the wall hoping to find an honorable death, but had met only brigands and thieves. Most of the Roman legionaries would be at the wall fighting her people. But the men who kidnapped her had dragged her deep into Londinium, far away from where the two armies battled. Now she was not sure which direction to take. All would lead to one wall or another eventually, so she chose her directions at random and trudged through the wreckage, trying to ignore the sharp pain in her abdomen. It flared like a glowing dagger in her womb.

It was Dago. The whoreson had punched her hard in the abdomen several times before he tried to rape her, and she was not far enough along that such a thing could not be devastating. In truth, she had considered a similar situation not long ago, knowing that a solid blow to her belly could end her problems. She had decided against such action due to the risks. Losing the baby could well kill her, too. Worse, she would die with the stain of the Roman’s bastard child between her legs, and everyone would know what had happened to her. That, she could not have, and so she abandoned the idea.

Now it seemed she would die exactly as she had feared, dishonored and weak, with the blood of a Roman bastard on her thighs. Dago had negated her decision. May the gods spit on his bones.

She was attacked more than once on her way through the city, but each time her superior training won out and she sent the bandits to meet their gods. Thus were the benefits of being a princess to a militant people. In truth, she welcomed the attacks, secretly hoping she would find someone who proved stronger. Maybe then the gods would see fit to grant her an honorable death. In addition, the combat provided more adrenaline, which helped to mask the pain. For a time, at least. After each fight ended, she found it more and more difficult to keep walking. Yet somehow she managed, refusing to die helpless in the street like a bitch with a litter of pups.

But even as she walked, she knew. Sooner or later she would collapse in the street, too weak to fight. What if a legionary found her, then? Would he kill her clean? Or would he be like Dago, preferring sport before blood? Pained as she was, she did not think she could stomach having another Roman inside her even as she lost the bastard child of the first rape. Far better to meet her end on her own terms.

Lannosea reached into the folds of her tunic and removed her dagger. It would do nicely. She placed it over her heart just as another spasm of pain wracked her body, sending her to her knees. The dagger fell from fingers that could not hold it, and Lannosea fell to the cobbled street. Her face lay in the dirt as her belly twisted inside her, wringing her out like a dirty rag. Something warm and wet ran down the insides of her thighs, and she knew beyond doubt she would not rise again.

The dagger lay a few inches away, but it might as well have been a mile.

So this is how I die, she thought. They will find me laying in the street with blood on my thighs and a half formed child between my legs. A weak sob escaped her clenched jaw, accompanied by a tear that wound its way across her cheek. This is not how I wanted to die, she thought.

Across the street, a blurry figure emerged from an equally blurry doorway and started walking toward her. Though little more than a shadow, she could tell it was a man of medium height and build with dark, shoulder length hair. The details of his face were lost in her fading vision, but she caught the soft glint of steel at his hip and on his chest. Armor. A legionary, just as she had feared.

“Please kill me quickly,” she said, or tried to say. All that came from her lips was a hoarse croak.

The man reached her side and knelt in the street, putting his hand on her thigh.

“Don’t,” she croaked. “Please, no…”

Then the world faded.

Taras watched as the woman walked through the city. Blood drenched her clothing like rain, but most of it belonged to those who dared accost her. It soon became obvious that she did not need any help from him, and several times he turned to go, knowing his tunnel would only remain accessible for a short while longer.

But every time he tried to leave, he soon found himself turning around to follow her again. There was something about her that he could not let go. Perhaps it was the strength of her determination. Gravely injured and in obvious pain, the woman somehow kept on her feet through sheer force of will. Taras found he admired her spirit, even though he could do nothing for her injuries. Ridiculous as it was, he felt he owed it to her-or perhaps to Mary-to see the woman through.

Every once in a while he would catch someone stalking after her. He killed these people as quietly as he could, unwilling to let her know that he watched over her. He recalled her expression back in the building when she first saw him. She had seen his fangs, as well as the blood on his chin. The look of horror on her face left no doubt that she had guessed his nature. He didn’t think she would appreciate knowing a Bachiyr watched her back.

He looked up at his latest victim, a large man who had fondled himself as he watched her stumble down the street, and realized how much time he’d spent trailing the woman. The eastern sky flared a bright orange, and the first rays of the sun would reach the top of the nearby building in a few minutes. He could not wait any longer lest the sun find him out in the open. He would have to return to his shelter and hope the woman made it out of the city alive.

Taras turned to take one final look at the woman and froze.

She lay curled into a ball in the middle of the street moaning in pain. Even from this distance the blood on her thighs was easy to see. It stood out against the contrast of her pale Iceni skin. More blood lay in the dirt between her legs. Dago hurt her badly, he thought. He deserved what I gave him, and more. In the middle of the blood, he thought he saw something else. A lump? A piece of flesh? Probably just a stone in the street. Whatever it was, it was covered with blood, as well. Her blood, most likely.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to see two legionaries advancing on her from either side of the street. One of them reached her and knelt in the street, and Taras felt a swell of pride. In another life he had served in the Roman legion, and his love for Rome had demanded he serve well and honorably so as not to besmirch her good name. As representatives of the greatest empire in the world, these men would have honor. They would aid the woman. He could stop worrying.

One of them grabbed her thigh and rolled her on her back. The other legionary grinned, then reached down to grab the woman’s ankles and spread them wide while the first fumbled with the laces of his breeches.

No, Taras thought. Has the Legion truly sunk so low?

Before he realized what he was doing, Taras ran through the street. He barreled into the first man and knocked him to the ground, smiling when he heard several of the man’s ribs crack. He whipped his dagger from his belt and jammed it in the man’s chest as he rolled by, driving it so deep the tip bit into the cobbles of the street beneath him.

Then he changed course and ran at the second. Warning bells in the back of his mind screamed at him to look up at the sky, but he ignored them. The second legionary reached for the sword at his hip, but Taras was faster. He extended his claws and ripped into the would-be rapist like a badger, shredding flesh and spraying blood.

His victim screamed and held up his hands to ward off the frenzied blows, but the thought of what the man was about to do to the helpless woman brought out Taras’s brutal Bachiyr side, and he tore into the man’s forearms, ripping the flesh as easily as if it was made of papyrus. He didn’t stop at the man’s forearms. In seconds, he worked his way to the Roman’s torso, ripping through his metal breastplate and tearing into the man’s chest. Soon the screams died down into a pitiful, pain-filled wail. Shortly after that, the man was silent.

Taras continued to tear into the body, not realizing or caring that he was dead. It wasn’t until his claws struck the cobbles underneath that he realized what he had done. Beneath him, the man lay in a lump of blood and gore that was barely recognizable as human. Blood pooled out from the mutilated corpse, forming a large puddle in the street. At the center of the puddle knelt Taras, his hands and arms covered in blood.

“I knew you had it in you,” said a voice behind him.

Taras whirled. There, not ten paces distant, was Theron.

Herris! Here? Damn him! Baella’s eyes narrowed as she watched Herris walk the horse through the burning city. For once, she was thankful for the fires that raged through Londinium. The smell of smoke stung her nostrils, but it would hide her scent from Herris, as well. If she could just get close enough without him seeing her, she might be able to grab the reins and run. This close to sunrise, she doubted Herris would come after her. It was a slim hope, but sunrise was too close for her to plan anything elaborate.

Herris passed her location-hiding behind the only remaining wall of a blacksmith’s shop-and kept going. He hadn’t seen her. Excellent.

Baella stepped out from the cover of the wall and crept up behind him. She resisted the urge to use a Psalm of Silence to mask her footsteps. With all the noise in the city, Herris would sense such a thing the moment she used it. Far better to rely on her own stealth, cultivated over four thousand years of hiding from agents of the very being she now stalked. Her skill should be enough to get her close.

It wasn’t.

Herris stopped, lifted his head, and made a show of sniffing the air. “I knew I would find you here,” he said.

Baella stopped in her tracks. Curse his ears! “Hello, Herris.”

Herris turned to face her, the horse’s rope gripped tightly in his left hand. She had not seen Herris in over a thousand years, but he had not changed. His eyes still shone red in the pre-dawn light, and he still had the same head of short, brown hair. His skin seemed a little lighter, and his frame had filled out a bit, but otherwise he looked exactly as she remembered him, although the bemused expression on his face was new.

“That’s Headcouncil Herris," he said. “You should try to remember that, Baella.”

Baella spat in the street, showing Herris what she thought of his title.

“As you will,” Herris said, his eyes unreadable as ever. “Count yourself fortunate that I do not have time to kill you right now. The sun is near and Ramah is due back in the Halls of the Bachiyr. You are welcome to follow us inside, if you wish.”

“He’s mine, Herris,” Baella said. “He’s always been mine.”

Herris stared back at her, the glow of his eyes rivaling the flames around them. Power thrummed through the man, so loud she could almost hear it. It crackled from him like lightning around a thundercloud and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. His expression never changed, but the shift in the air between them was unmistakable. “Unless you are prepared to take him from me by force, I think you are mistaken,” he said.

Baella almost did it. The sight of Ramah slung over the rump of her horse nearly broke her. She had come so close, so gods-damned close! She checked the sudden urge to launch herself at Herris and wrap her hands around his ancient, smug throat. She was just as strong as he, despite his bravado. But he was right. The dawn had come. The edge of the sun had already crested the horizon, casting the tops of the building into early morning light. A fight with Herris would take far too long, and the sun would kill all three of them before a victor could emerge. And that would be a terrible waste.

She took a step backward, raising her hands toward the sky to show him she would not fight. Not today, anyway. The air around him calmed, no longer vibrating with barely-contained energy, and she knew he’d relaxed a bit. Never completely, though. Not that one. Not while I am still near enough to cause trouble. She took another step backward.

“I will have him eventually, Herris,” she said, unable to keep the fury from her voice. “You can’t keep me from him forever.”

“As always, Baella, you are welcome to come into the Halls. The Father would welcome you to our ranks. You would even supplant Ramah as Second of the Council. Of course, you would have to kill him first, but I should think that a small price to pay, considering the gains you would make.”

She didn’t miss the sneer he placed on her name, or the intent. Herris had wanted to remind her that he knew, as if she could ever forget. No matter. If he had not told Ramah or any of the other Councilors the truth in four thousand years, she doubted he would do it now. “Someday, Herris. I will take a great deal of pleasure in killing you.”

“Until then,” Herris said, smiling that insufferable grin, “good bye.” With that, the oldest Bachiyr in the world turned and walked away from her. He didn’t even try to guard his back; so secure was he in his belief that she would not risk an attack. It would be easy, and fast. One blow in the right place and she would be rid of Herris-and very likely the Council of Thirteen-forever. If she missed, Herris would not hesitate to attack, and the resulting delay would kill all three of them. Was it worth the risk?

One blow.

In precisely the right spot.

Baella cursed and turned away, headed for her own portal.