by Ty Johnston
The lad’s eyes winced as he tried to scream, but there was only drool and blood spewing from his open mouth as he was raised above the warrior’s head. Soon enough, the young man’s head drooped and his dark hair hung in his still face.
As if the youth’s weight was no more than a sack of flour, Bayne slung his weapon to one side, sending the body rolling and sputtering blood before coming to a stop at the feet of the young man’s friends.
The youth did not rise.
The warrior walked to the body and leaned down, wiping his blade clean on the lad’s pants. Returning his weapon to its sheath on his back, Bayne’s other hand grabbed at the knife still sticking from his chest. He yanked.
The blade came free with a spattering of scarlet.
“Damn nuisance.” The knife fell to the dust at his feet.
For the first time in long seconds, Bayne took notice of the other two boys.
They sat where they had. Motionless on the rocks. Their eyes wider than ever.
Bayne pointed down the road in the direction he had been heading.“Go.”
The two went, jumping off boulders and shuffling away as if a devil were on their tails. Perhaps one was. At least they seemed to think so as they kept glancing over their shoulders.
Eventually the two disappeared around the next bend in the mountain, the dark-garbed youths mingling into tall trees climbing up and up.
Bayne sighed and watched for some little while to make sure the two were not fools planning to come back. Perhaps they were brave enough to ambush him further along his path, but he thought not. If so, however, he would deal with them when the time came.
He knelt next to the dead youth at his feet and shook his head. Such a waste. He grabbed the ankles and pulled the body to the side of the road.
Without a shovel it was not easy digging in the gravel-like soil, but Bayne used the dead youth’s knife and eventually had a shallow grave into which he dropped the corpse. Covering the body was a much easier task, and by the end Bayne was covered in a gray dust.
He glanced to the grave and shook his head, then marched down the road.
As morning passed to day, the sun rose higher and beat down upon the chain-clad walker, drying the ring of red on his chest and leaving behind a crust which was nonchalantly brushed away. Of a wound to Bayne’s chest, there was no sign.
About mid-day he came upon a village. It was a true village, not like the village that was not a village he had pondered at the foot of the mountain. Here Bayne paused long to take in his new surroundings.
The path that had been his road widened into a broad expanse big enough to house the dozen or so buildings that made up the village. These structures were two stories and built of dark wood beams and slate roofs; windows stood open to allow inside the day’s warm breeze, the shutters painted greens and reds having been tied back with string attached to nails on the outer walls. The buildings formed a rough circle of sorts around a central area of packed earth, the middle of the small town, where was a well made of rock and mud binding. To Bayne’s right, the backs of houses were built directly up against the stocky gray of the mountain. To his left, the houses sat on a giant lip of rock and dirt hanging out over a long drop to treetops below. Across the open middle of the town the road appeared to continue between two houses, turning from packed dirt into loose gravel beyond the structures.
Smoke flowed up from several chimneys. Black birds flitted by overhead. Curtains danced in open windows
No one was to be seen and silence ruled.
Bayne did not trust the tranquility. But he had to follow the man who wanted him killed.
He began to walk once more.
Bayne had not made it very far, not even past the first house, when a door creaked open at the second house, a dark structure to his left.
Just inside the door, leaning against the frame, stood a tall man wearing a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his eyes. Bayne felt menace from the stranger’s look and stopped in his tracks to return the fellow’s hard stare. Taking in the man’s plain, dusty garb and the heavy, gray cloak hanging from his back, Bayne recognized the fellow as a Caballeran, one of the band of horse riding warriors from the far north and west. But those eyes, like worn granite in the midst of a storm, told tales of battles won and lost, blood strewn upon many a field, and bodies tossed aside as so much meat, even the bodies of companions and loved ones. This Caballeran wore not the eyes of a warrior, but the eyes of a man who had seen too much and done too much, a man not broken but only because he no longer recognized any differences between wrong and right.
When the man stepped from the doorway into the street, his cloak flitted to one side revealing a heavy sword hanging from his hip. He took only a few steps before coming to a halt, seeming intent not to block Bayne’s path, then tilted his head back as if to get a better view of the big man in the road.
Two other figures appeared in the doorway behind the Caballeran. These two were younger, their faces not as gruff nor their eyes as cold, though their simple garb and broad hats revealed them to be of the older man’s clan.
Bayne ignored the two. The old man was nearer, and the others seemed in no hurry to leave the safety of the house.
The older man hitched a thumb around the hilt of his sword.“You would be the one who killed the Gath.”
Gath. It was a term vaguely familiar to Bayne, and it explained the three youths on the road. Mercenaries from eastern Ursia, young warriors who powdered their faces and clad themselves in black to show their disdain for death. Until today, Bayne had never confronted such fighters. He was not impressed.
To acknowledge the speaker, Bayne nodded to the man.“The Gath sought his own death.”
The man grinned, showing straight teeth stained brown. His eyes also grinned, but there was little mirth to be found in those deep orbs.“That is the way of the Gath,”he said.“They fear not death, and seek to prove it at every opportunity.”
“All men fear death,” Bayne said. “Any who says otherwise is lying or insane.”
The other man’s grin widened as he touched the brim of his hat with a finger. A Caballeran sign of respect, Bayne knew. Two warriors sharing wisdom and respect.
The fellow with the hat glanced over his shoulder to his younger companions.“Plates. Drink.”
The two youths disappeared inside.
The Caballeran pointed along the road to a shadowed alleyway between two houses.“Would you do me the honor of lunching with me this day?”
Bayne’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at the lane with suspicion.
“I give my word as Masterson, sergeant of the third Caballeran infantry, I will deal you no harm within the confines of our meal.”
Bayne believed the man. There was an aura of honor about him despite his steel eyes. Besides, to a Caballeran, dismissing such an invitation would be a great dishonor, and Bayne had no wish this day to shed blood unless there was little choice.
“As you suggest, Masterson.” Bayne strode forward heavily, watching the other man as he passed and entered the dim shade of the passage.
A black iron table awaited, its surface a scrollwork of flowers in bloom and birds upon the wing. A pair of matching chairs faced one another across the table, each also of black iron but cushioned with a scarlet pillow.
As he felt was appropriate, Bayne moved to one side and allowed Masterson to approach the opposing seat. Together, facing one another, each man eased onto his own chair, Masterson pausing long enough to remove his wide hat and hang it on the back of his seat, Bayne twisting to one said to allow for the long sword on his back.
A door behind the sergeant screeched open and out walked one of the younger Caballerans, now without cloak and head covering. The young man carried a pewter plate in each hand, atop each plate resting a mass of cooked greens, a slice of what appeared to be grilled chicken and a flour-draped biscuit. The young man placed a plate before each of the sitting men, then returned inside.
Bayne and Masterson conti
nued to stare at one another without moving. Without blinking.
The other young Caballeran, he too uncloaked and hatless, exited the building and placed a pale cloth napkin next to each sitter’s plate, then set iron forks and knives on the napkin. He too returned inside the building, but was back momentarily with wooden mugs.
Each man at the table was handed a mug, then the youth was gone.
Bayne sipped his drink. It tasted of apple with a hint of liquor.
Masterson held his mug up between himself and the other warrior.“Caballeran cider. My family’s recipe.”
“A fine drink,” Bayne said, sipping again.
“I’m glad you find it to your liking.” Masterson quaffed a drink of the liquid.
They ate in silence. The only sounds were the clinkings of forks and knives against pewter and the distant ring of the wind over the treetops below.
All the while their eyes were upon one another as if wolves sharing a carcass in the dead of winter.
Finally, they were done with their repast.
“Thank you,” Bayne said, easing his chair back from the table. “That is the first meal I have had in several days.”
Masterson too scooted his chair away from the table.“It is a pleasure to hear.”
Both men continued to sit, staring at one another.
“How long since he came through?” Bayne asked.
Masterson seemed to ignore the question. He turned sideways in his chair to glance at the door behind him.“Orrville! Coffee and cigars!”
As if he had been waiting just the other side of the doorway, the taller of the two young Caballerans burst out the entrance with a pewter tray on one hand. He proceeded to place a pair of short tan ceramic mugs onto the table. Next to each of these he placed what appeared to be a brown roll of field leaf.
Masterson nodded to the younger fellow, who paid no mind to those sitting and returned inside.
The Caballeran twisted in his seat so he faced Bayne properly and reached out to retrieve his cigar. He grinned as he bit into one end of the cheroot and spit most of that into the dirt at his feet. He then retrieved a small brass box from a pants pocket, flicked the box open to retrieve a wooden match, snapped the box closed and returned it to its hiding place. He scratched the match on the side of his pants leg. It lit immediately, flaring up bright.
Masterson twisted the cigar in his mouth as he held the flame to the far end of the leaf. He sucked in air and the brown stick belched smoke from its burning end. Holding his breath for a moment, he flipped the match to one side where it died in the dirt, then he exhaled. A ghost of gray fluttered out between his lips and the man smiled again.
Bayne watched all this with much curiosity.
The Caballeran continued to smile as he removed the cigar from his mouth and held it out.“Finest Caballeran smoke weed there is.”He used his cigar to point at its twin next to the coffee mug in front of Bayne.“You should give it a try. The coffee, too, though it’s only local blend brought up from the fields below.”
“Thank you,” Bayne said, his hands remaining in his lap, “but you did not answer my question.”
Bayne had not accepted the cigar as a gift. Normally this would have been an insult worthy of raising the ire of any Caballeran warrior. A duel would have commenced, a quick and dirty though formal affair that would only end with the death of one man or another. But Bayne had trapped Masterson. Before the offering of the cigar, Bayne had posed a question. He had not received an answer. Under the rules of the Caballeran code, if anyone had been affronted, it was Bayne. Masterson owed an answer.
The older Caballeran appeared to immediately recognize his position. He flicked the end of his cigar to send ash twirling upon the wind, then lay the smoke on the edge of the table.
He tilted his head forward so his eyes faced the ground.“My humblest apologies, good Bayne. I meant no disrespect to yourself.” It was the only option available, a sign of Masterson’s honor, other than open combat.
Bayne tapped the end of the table and retrieved the cigar, sliding it into his belt. He had accepted the smoke, but had not lit it in the company of the old man. This too was a sign, that the big man had been mollified but was not entirely at ease. It also could have been a sign Bayne did not know the use of a cigar, but Masterson was too polite to make a point of such.
The Caballeran raised his head and stared at the warrior across from him.
“How long since he came through?” Bayne repeated.
“Two days ago,” Masterson said. “Riding a black horse. Showed a bag of gold. Promised it to the man who would kill you.”
“Do you plan to collect?”
Masterson did not blink. “I do.”
“You have an odd way of killing a man,” Bayne said.
“How do you know the food was not poisoned?”
“You know of me,” Bayne said, “so you must know poison would do little good.”
Masterson gave a slight nod.“True enough.”
Bayne waved a hand over the remains of their repast.“Then why this meal? The coffee and cigar?”
“I like to know a man before I slay him.”
Bayne eased back in his chair and slid out of the seat, standing next to the table.“Do we do this here? Or in the street?”
Slowly and with caution, keeping his hands nowhere near his sword, Masterson took to his feet. He retrieved his hat from the back of the chair and placed it atop his head.“My manners would be remiss if I were to face you here after we have shared a meal. No. You are safe from me and mine as long as you remain in town. Once you take to the open road again, then you are fair game.”
For the first time in many a day, Bayne’s lips curved into a smile.“That would seem to give me impetus to stay in the village.”
Masterson returned the grin.“Or you could join us. Within the ranks of the Caballeran infantry, no assassins would dare approach you.”
“You honor me,” Bayne said.
“It would be an honor to have you among us.”
“Alas, I cannot commit,” Bayne said. “My destiny lies elsewhere.”
“It is the least I could offer under the circumstances,” Masterson said. “You have shown yourself worthy.”
“And you have shown yourself to be an honorable man,” Bayne said. “I hope you will not hold it against me when I stand over your corpse.”
The eyes of the Caballeran turned to ice.“We shall see.”
Bayne turned away, his muscular legs leading him back toward the center of town.
“Warrior!”
Bayne glanced over his shoulder to Masterson.
“Beware,” the Caballeran counseled. “There are still Gath in wait for you. And a group of Ashalites are about, likely with a wish to weigh themselves down with gold.”
“My thanks,” Bayne said, saluting with a finger to an eyebrow.
“No thanks are needed,” Masterson said. “I just don’t want them to kill you before I have my opportunity.”
Then the Caballeran chuckled.
Bayne let loose with his own lusty guffaw, then headed back to the streets, leaving the older warrior and his honorable ways behind.
The air of the town square felt different than before. An unseen aura of menace lay upon the atmosphere. Bayne felt many eyes upon him, eyes with no good intentions.
He looked over his shoulder once more, but found Masterson no longer there. The Caballeran’s cigar still burned on the edge of the table.
Movement. Out of the corner of his eye.
Bayne swung back upon the square.
An addition had come to the scene, a youth in black leathers reclined upon stone steps in an open doorway across the square. The boy’s hair dripped like ink into his eyes and his face was the powdered white of a whore. His right elbow propped him up against the steps while his left hand played with a dagger, flipping the blade into the air, catching it, twirling it around his fingers, playing, playing, playing with danger.
The Gath had
not been there a moment before. Fast, he was.
Without moving his eyes, Bayne allowed the sides of his vision to tell him the story. Another of the Gath stood in an open window above the one sitting on the steps. Two more tried to hide behind flimsy curtains of the same house on the ground floor.
As a group they were nervous, though the one outside was trying his best to not appear so.
Bayne approached, stopping mere yards from the relaxed youth with the dagger flying about his hands.
The knife stopped, the weapon’s handle tight in the boy’s grip.“You killed Neil.” He didn’t look up.
“If you mean the cur who accosted me on my approach to town,” Bayne said, “then you are correct.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“He shoved a blade into my chest,” Bayne said. “He struck first. He lost.”
The Gath glanced up.“I see no wound.”
“You wouldn’t.”
The dagger slid into a slim leather sheath on the youth’s belt.“And why would that be?”
“I heal.”
The boy slapped his gloved hands together as if knocking away dust, then he sprang to his feet. The motion was swift and balanced, like a mountain cat, the balls of his moccasined feet touching ground first, his arching legs and back straightening above. He came up facing the large, muscular warrior in the chain shirt, the lad’s dark head only as high as the big man’s chest.
“Think it through,” Bayne warned.
The boy didn’t.
He lunged. A short blade hidden in a hand springing forward and stabbing. Missing.
Bayne dove to one side, instincts taking the place of logic.
A shattered window. Tumbling glass falling and breaking further.
A crossbow bolt smacked into the ground, cracking into two pieces next to the downed warrior.
The youth with the knife dropped to a knee, his weapon gripped over handed and swinging down from above. Bayne rolled to one side and kicked out, a boot connecting with the Gath’s chin and sending the lad sprawling.
The two from behind the curtains charged out of the house, each with a rapier aimed for the chain-clad warrior. Bayne jumped to his feet, another bolt from the window above slamming into the dirt where he had just lain.
