by Ty Johnston
He had no time to draw his sword, the two rapirists upon him too quickly. One stabbed. Bayne grabbed the long blade with a hand and snapped the other palm onto steel, snapping the weapon in two. The other Gath slashed in from the side, his metal raking against Bayne’s link shirt.
The one with the knife was on his feet again. He sprang between his two comrades and thrust with his dagger. Bayne jammed the broken end of a rapier into the youth’s left eye, bringing a splash of red and squeals like that of a dying pig before the lad dropped.
The two Gath still standing seemed in shock at their leader’s fate, their jaws dropping and their eyes as big as coins.
All backed off as the one who lost his eye squirmed and screamed on the ground, sending blood spraying around his entwining form in the dust of the street as he clutched at his face.
Bayne slid back and unsheathed his heavy sword.
A crossbow bolt slammed into his chest. The head of the arrow sank deep beneath his chain shirt, sending links flying. Bayne took no notice.
He jumped forward, landing with both feet on the back of the bleeding Gath. The breath burst from the dying youth’s lips and he could scream no more as air fled his lungs and his spine snapped.
Bayne lashed out with his sword. A hand gripping a rapier fell to the ground. Again the warrior swung out his blade. This time an arm dropped.
Blood flowed down the street. Young men screamed for their mothers and died in a shivering heap.
Bayne burst through the door into the building from where the Gath had come. The crossbowman still awaited upstairs. Bayne thundered across a foyer of plank floors with dark beams for walls, blood dripping from along the lengths of his sword.
A bloody sight brought him up short. Lined on the floor next to a darkened hearth lay three bodies, a man, a woman and a girl of no more than six years. A family. All were garbed in simple muslin. All wore a red line crossing beneath their chins.
A curse from above drew Bayne’s attention to wooden stairs leading up. A roar as from a lion ripped out the warrior’s throat as he assaulted the steps three at a time.
At the top was a closed door. He hesitated not, kicking and bursting through with his sword swishing before him.
A familiar Gath youth, one of the survivors from the road, was huddled on the floor, a large arbalest fumbling in his hands. It was a heavy weapon with a strong pull and the boy was in too much of a hurry trying to wind back the weapon’s crank to reload another dart.
Bayne bound forward screaming, his sword in two hands over his head.
The youth tossed his crossbow to one side and skidded back on the floor beneath the shattered window.“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me!”
Steel chopped flesh to be buried in the wood of the floor.
The Gath died with a gurgle and a sigh.
Bayne planted a boot on the body’s chest and tugged his weapon free, trickling scarlet and leaving bits of gray lung caked along the sword. The warrior leaned down and wiped his blade clean on the pants of the youth.
A cry from outside.
Bayne leapt to the window. A story below, a Gath stood looking upon the three bodies of his compatriots. Though he could only see a corner of the youth’s face, Bayne recognized him as the last of those from the road.
Bayne jumped.
And landed on his feet, his sword lashing out in search of vengeance.
The last Gath had luck, however, as Bayne’s sword found only empty air. The clamor of Bayne’s landing, all that chain rattling and the thudding of the warrior’s weight onto packed soil, sent the boy running in fear.
Bayne pursued.
Across the village square they loped, prey and predator, the big man gaining on the shorter, lighter boy in black.
With a glance behind, the Gath saw death only moments away in the steel eyes of his follower. Seeking escape, the youth spun on a heel and darted between two of the village buildings.
Only to find himself in a cul de sac. A wall of timber faced him.
He spun back upon his fate.
Bayne had stopped. He stood there, a trickle of red running down his chest from the arrow still protruding there. His sword was tight in a fist but hanging at his side, dripping gore and grime into the dirt.
“I never hurt anyone!” The boy begged. He had nothing else to do. “I wasn’t truly a Gath. I just wore black to be among them. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
Bayne let his sword fall to the ground. He had no need of it here. He stepped forward, within reaching distance.
The lad winced.
“You were an imposter, then,” Bayne said. It was not a question.
The boy nodded.“I wasn’t one of them.”
“You were a mimic,” Bayne went on, “a pretender, a poseur.”
The boy nodded faster and faster, his head bobbing on his neck like a chicken at feed.“Yes, yes. I’m no Gath. I’m a farm boy from western Ursia.”
Bayne pointed at the rapier strapped to the youth’s belt.“You are also a hypocrite.”
He wrenched the arrow from his chest, once more sending chain links and slivers of flesh flying, then jabbed out, stabbing the boy in the neck, burying the arrow’s head deep.
The youth shrieked like a murdered rabbit.
Bayne stabbed again. And again. And again. Each stab brought a new spray of blood, covering the youth in red and spraying Bayne’s front.
With each blow, the youth’s hoarse throat gave out another yelp and cry. He screamed for his parents, for his home, for a girl he’d once loved. He screamed for God.
In the end, he died in a bloody heap with a cracked arrow projecting from the mess of flesh and muscle that had once been his throat. The wounds were so garish his head was nearly separated from the trunk of his body.
Standing over the chaos and disarray of killing, Bayne’s breaths came in sharp gasps. It was the hardest he had breathed in days, even after all his walking and climbing up the side of the mountain. He glared down at the bloody remains of the youth. There were no signs of peace in the warrior’s eyes.
Bayne spat, his white phlegm spotting the ground near the dead boy’s head. “Don’t wear yourself like an outlaw and expect to be treated differently.”
The clamor of two hands clapping brought Bayne around.
Blocking the exit from the alley was a line of six men wrapped in sandy muslin from head to toe as if in burial shrouds. Atop their heads were many wrappings, all white but for the man clapping who wore a headdress of dusty scarlet. Even these men’s faces were covered but for the eyes. Skin tanned by a desert sun was revealed about those black eyes and on bare hands. About their waists were thick hide belts glinting with bronze, tulwars and scimitars hanging.
These men in their white garb were known to Bayne. They were Ashalites from Pursia, an offshoot branch of a young cult, warriors who spread their beliefs with the edge of a sword.
The one clapping stopped and strode forward.
“Your punishment is harsh but just,” he said, bowing his head slightly while keeping his eyes on the big man before him. “Thanks be to Ashal for your strength and courage of conviction.”
Bayne grimaced.“Ashal had nothing to do with it. And there was little just about it. They were paid to kill me. I killed them.”
The leader of the Ashalites waved a hand to the brutalized mess at Bayne’s feet.“Surely this slaying was a fitting punishment for one of evil.”
The breathing finally came easier to Bayne. He took in a great gulp of air and scratched at his chest to remove the blood drying there. As earlier in the day, his body bore no signs of a wound.
With a boot he prodded the corpse at his feet.“Whether good or evil is of little interest to me. He was stupid, and that got him killed. He never should have joined with a band of Gath.”
“You have no interest in good and evil?” the leader asked.
Bayne shook his head.“Why should I? Men know the difference down in their souls.”
“Men know g
ood and evil because Ashal described it to them.”
“I trust not your book.”
“Blasphemy.”
Bayne shrugged.“Reasoning.”
“Ashal tells us --”
“From what I have heard, Ashal was a man,” Bayne said, “though a remarkable one. He walked among other men and healed them. Whether he was a god or not, I do not know. Whether god exists, I do not know. But it will take more than the word of men such as you to sway me.”
The leader of the Ashalites snapped forth a hand and pointed at Bayne.“Here I believed you worthy of entwining with our host. Beware yourself, Bayne kul Kanon, named for a demon, as you tread dangerous ground. We are here as a righteous cause to bring all under Ashal’s will!”
“Killing in the name of a god, any god, is detestable,” Bayne said, “and I was mistaken to believe you were here for a sorcerer’s gold.”
The leader whipped forth his tulwar.
Bayne stepped toward his own dropped weapon.
“Do not touch that sword if you wish to live!”
Bayne glanced up. His lips barely moved.“Very well. I do not need it.”
The leader of the zealots grimaced.“You think we fear you? We fear not death! We have been promised bliss!”
“Fine,” Bayne said. “At least I’ll no longer have to hear your blathering on this side of death’s veil.”
“You mock us!” the priest roared.
“Say hello to your god,” Bayne said.
The warrior sprang.
The attack was a surprise to the Pursians. It never entered their minds an unarmed man would do such.
He did. And the Pursians were in disarray.
Bayne reached the chief first, the Ashalite swinging his arms as he tried to backpedal. Bayne snatched the man by the throat and squeezed. The spine cracked and cartilage crushed, Bayne tossed aside his lifeless foe.
Another Ashalite sliced with a sword, his bronze blade raking against chain before he too was grabbed, this time by the face. Bayne’s thumb dug in below the chin and two of his fingers found eye sockets. He squeezed. The Ashalite’s face imploded as if an overripe fruit caught in the clutches of a giant. Flesh, blood, bone, cartilage and muscle collapsed in upon itself. There was a scream. Then the gory chaos that had been a man fell away.
By this time the remaining four Pursians had gathered their wits. Their companions’ deaths had been gruesome, but these were men experienced in war and terror. They were not shocked easily and overcame their fear to launch a counter attack.
Two sliced at Bayne from opposing sides. One blade was knocked away by the flat of the big man’s hand. The other sword sliced against an arm, leaving a long cut that bled. The other two zealots advanced directly, thrusting with their scimitars.
Bayne twisted to one side and kicked out, connecting with a man's wrist and sending a sword flying. The other Ashalite in front swung up with his weapon, coming from below for his opponent’s groin. Bayne was fast again, spinning to his other side and catching the blade against a leg. This wound too was long but shallow, tearing a gash along his pants.
The swordless Ashalite screamed in the tongue of his native land and dove at his foe. Bayne caught him with both hands, lifted the fellow high and threw him at the others.
Four warriors went tumbling in a pile.
Bayne dropped to a knee and retrieved his sword.
Then he stood and remained in place. He had yet to take or give an inch
Fumbling amongst themselves, the four were soon enough on their feet. All again hefted long blades, but now they were wary, moving in with caution.
Bayne's unblinking eyes focused on a spot in the middle of the group.
With a shout, the men charged, all attacking at once. Four long, curving blades swept in at Bayne from four directions. One sword missed entirely due to its wielder’s fervor, driven over the large warrior's head. Two other blades were knocked aside by a sweep of Bayne’s own steel.
The fourth sword could not be avoided. Bayne slung up an arm as a shield. The enemy’s sword bit deep, driving through flesh and striking with a metallic ringing against the bone. But that bone held, and Bayne’s arm remained true despite the new wound.
Surprised once more at their foe’s strength, the four Ashalites drew back.
Bayne done playing with these fanatical warriors. He jumped at them, slashing from left to right with a wide sweep of his heavy sword. Steel sliced cloth and flesh, spilling a man’s intestines as if a live serpent escaping his stomach to seek a home in the dirt.
Another Ashalite tried to sidestep Bayne’s swinging death, but he tread in the gory mess that had once been a friend’s face and slipped to the ground. His tulwar went spinning away. Bayne stomped on the fallen man’s ankle, shattering bone beneath flesh and bringing a roar of pain. Bayne finished him with a slice across the throat.
The surviving two Ashalites fell back further, now out of the alleyway and into the center of the town. Bayne followed at a run. One man turned to flee. The other brought up his scimitar. Again, Bayne swung out wide with his weapon. Two heads dropped to the earth. Two neck stumps sprouted blood. Two bodies fell into the dirt.
Bayne paused to stare about at the destruction he had wrought throughout the village. An observer might have thought that steady gaze held pride, but it was not true. It was also not true those eyes were gripped by sorrow. If anything, Bayne’s gray orbs revealed an essence of completion. A task had been done, a bloody task that should not befall any man. Only fools would kill for gold, and only the deranged would kill for divinity. Such men might not deserve the fate Bayne had meted out that day, but it was they who had sought their own demise. They had had a choice, and they choose poorly.
Bayne sighed. He stepped away from the gore that littered the street, the bottoms of his boots leaving a splotch of red with every step he took. Slowly, moving his way to the edge of town near the road where he had originally entered, his eyes and mind followed the conflict that had occurred over the last hour. Gath lay dead near one house. Ashalites were piled together near the entrance to the cul de sac. Another Gath and two more of the fanatics rested in bloody pools inside the stoppered alley.
He blinked, then leaned down to grip a handful of dust from the road. He sprinkled the dry grit along the flats of his sword, watching the dust clump together the blood along the blade’s edges. With a rag taken from his belt, he smeared the weapon clean. He dropped the rag at his feet, adding more blood to the scene.
Bayne then slid the sword into its dark home on his back.
He glanced around. There was nothing living to see. He listened. The only noise was that of distant birds whistling among the trees further down the mountain. His tongue tasted of dust and bile. His nose was filled with copper. His skin was chill.
He showed no signs of being wounded, and what blood sheathed his clothing was little of his own.
There was no need to remain. Bayne walked across the town’s center, heading toward the exit between two of the village buildings. He soon enough came to the road again, this time layered in red, worn, cracked bricks from another age.
A rock-toss away stood three men, Masterson and the two younger Caballerans. The old man seemed more ancient than before, his skin the color of ash and hanging from his face in folds. But each of the three stood planted, Masterson at the point of a triangle. Gray cloaks floated behind the three, and each gripped a long sword in his hands.
“You do not have to do this,” Bayne offered.
“Yes, yes I do,” was the reply.
“You have witnessed my strength here today,” Bayne said. “Does that not give you pause?”
“Boys.” It was one word, a simple word.
The two young men moved around their leader and stomped forward, swords extended.
Bayne backed a step.“Masterson! Stop this foolishness!”
The sergeant said not a word and the two Caballerans continued forward. Grins of daring and assuredness lay about the young
men’s faces.
Bayne cursed. And then the two were upon him. One swung high, the other low. Bayne stepped into the men, so close their weapons would do little harm. He snapped out a flat palm, striking a chin with a crack and sending a youth tumbling back. Bayne’s other hand chopped out, connecting with a wrist. There was a yelp of pain and a Caballeran sword dropped to the road.
The disarmed mercenary drew forth a long knife with his good hand. Bayne grabbed the weapon hand and squeezed, crushing knuckles against the knife’s bone handle. The youth screamed again.
The other of the pair was on his feet again, shaking his head as if to clear his sight.
Bayne drew back his free arm and stared into the pain-filled eyes of the youth with whom he grappled. The boy was straining, trying to pull his pulped hand away from the bigger man. Bayne punched him square in the face, breaking the nose and splattering blood. The head snapped back and to one side in an unnatural position.
Bayne let the boy drop.
The other swordsman was suddenly there, swinging his lengthy blade down from upon high.
Bayne slapped his hands together overhead, catching the blade only inches from his face. The Caballeran tugged on his weapon. It would not move. Bayne held the steel in a grip as strong as a vice.
Once more, a Caballeran went for a knife at his belt.
Bayne flipped the long sword around in the air, catching it with one hand, and lashed out. The cutting edge sank into flesh, nearly beheading the youth.
Bayne kicked out. The dead mercenary fell away. Bayne dropped the borrowed weapon. And looked up to find Masterson had remained motionless.
The old Caballeran continued to stand with his boots slightly apart, his sword gripped in two hands out from his chest. Where before there had been a tiredness to his eyes, now there was anguish. The corners of his orbs glistened with tears.
“They were your sons,” Bayne said.
Masterson nodded.
“It did not have to be this way,” Bayne said. “You could have allowed me free passage.”
