by Ty Johnston
He had dealt this carnage with his own hands, yet it had seemed to take only minutes. He would have sworn he had slain no more than a dozen men, perhaps as many as a score, and then the enemy had withdrawn before him. How could he not remember all this slaughter? It was a mystery to Bayne. The blood letting had seemed to go on for some little while, but not to this extent. Bayne’s only conclusion was the bloodlust had overcome him, shortening his memories of the deadly events. He wasn’t surprised. He was a born killer, a natural killer, and none could stand before him.
The clatter of horse’s hooves striking stone and broken, armored bodies brought Bayne around once more.
Off in the distance, near where a group of the Trodan’s best had formed into a phalanx of spearman, a single horseman advanced, the soldiers’ formation opening enough for the man to ride through. The rider steered his beast directly for Bayne, taking his time in his approach as if sizing up the one who had slaughtered so many of his men.
The rider was obviously an officer. His burly chest and legs were sheltered in bright, shining silvered plates. Black chain hung about his shoulders and arms. His steel helmet was in the shape of a wolf’s head, the animal’s jaws open to reveal a stern face within. Strapped to the tall man’s back was a humongous sword, long and wide and impossible to use but for the strongest of men. A diamond-tipped lance rode in a cup to one side of the saddle, it’s aim at the darkening sky above. A shield of brightest bronze hung on the other side of the saddle, ready for use if the rider should need it.
Bayne simply stood his ground and waited for this man to near.
The Trodan rider took his time, his horse little more than prancing across the thousands of dead and dying. He showed no concern in his animal’s steps, not watching where the heavy hooves would land, and that combined with his unyielding gaze gave him an air of haughtiness.
Bayne smirked at the straight back and solid stare of the officer as the horse was reined to a halt some little distance from the big warrior.
“You are witness to Proconsul Lucius Sulla Tallerus,” announced the rider with a booming voice. “Prepare to meet your doom, minion of Verkanus.”
With that the rider slid from his saddle and whipped around his large, two-handed sword before slapping away his steed.
Bayne saw little reason to share words. “Fair enough.” He marched forward.
Swords, long and short, twirled in fists to clash against one another in a resonant scraping of sparks. The blow knocked the proconsul back several steps, but he remained on his feet, his heavy weapon gripped in both hands before him.
Bayne winced as the flash of sparks faded from his vision, but he stood his ground.
“You are mighty,” Tallerus said, “but righteousness shall prevail here today.”
Bayne wasted no words. He jumped forward, feinting to the right with his shorter blade.
The Trodan brought his own weapon around to knock aside his opponent’s thrust, but too late saw the attack had been a ruse. Bayne’s shield caught him in the face, flattening his nose and splitting his lower lip. Blood splashed as Tallerus was forced back another step.
Bayne kept up his momentum, whirling about with his shield overhead, coming in low with a long slash. Tallerus barely had time to leap above the shorter weapon, but in the air twisted his own sword around so its point came down hard against his foe’s shield.
The shield buckled and cracked, split nearly in two.
Bayne slung out his left arm, sending his broken safeguard spiraling away.
He only managed to bring up his short sword in time to obstruct another attack from the Trodan.
Bayne then stepped back, his first withdrawal of any kind of the day. He did not fear, nor was he tired or wounded. He took that step to give himself a moment to grin, to show this enemy he had respect for him.
Then steel crashed against steel, and this time the flying sparks lit up the night as if an explosion. Yet again, Tallerus found himself forced to retreat a few steps, and yet again Bayne forced the attack, plowing ahead with his shorter weapon whirling about in front of him.
The Trodan’s eyes were agog at the speed of his enemy’s blade, the smaller sword bouncing around left and right and high and low and all around this big, muscular figure who had slain thousands. Tallerus could not match the speed of the dancing sword before him. He withdrew several more paces.
Bayne darted in, his short blade thrashing out and sliding through the chain layering the Trodan’s right arm, sending links flying and blood spurting.
Tallerus cried out, his head thrown back to scream to the heavens.
The short sword came in again, this time from below, launching up with all the force Bayne’s muscled arms could bring. The blade slid in beneath hanging silvered plates, through black chains and oiled leather to find a home in the Trodan’s groin.
There was a crack within and a jerk of the proconsul’s body. His eyes opened wide for a moment, then the orbs rolled back in his head as his mouth formed into a silent scream. His body shuddered and his arms curled up to his chest, dropping his large weapon at his feet.
He was dead by the time he dropped into the mud.
Bayne stood there breathing heavily, staring down at the fallen enemy. He nodded, a final salute to the one warrior who had given him a true contest that day, then tossed aside his short sword. Reaching down, he lifted the proconsul’s two-handed weapon by its handle and stared at the fine steel of the blade and the leather cords wrapping the grip. This was a fine weapon, a weapon befitting the man who now held it.
Smiling once more, Bayne decided he would keep this sword. He knelt and rolled over the Trodan’s corpse, unbuckling the straps of the leather belt and sheath that had cased the huge weapon. Within minutes, the sword’s leather band was fastened about Bayne’s back and chest, the hefty blade resting in its familiar sheath.
A flare of light along the horizon caused the big man to look up from the final buckles crossing his chest. The brightness was at first that of a new morning sun, and though Bayne was not as yet familiar with this world, he did not believe morning was near.
As quickly as it had appeared, the light sunk down to a bare glow. It still remained far away at the horizon amidst the mingling horde of Trodan soldiers, all seemingly fearful to approach this strange warrior who had slain their general, but now the light bounced slightly from side to side.
It was obvious to Bayne whatever the source of this luminescence, it was on horseback. That would account for the bobbling of the far glow.
Gradually the light grew nearer, and after several minutes Bayne could make out the rider and his ride, a wobbly donkey that appeared too old to be of service despite the figure and the small packs it carried. Of the man on the back of the poor beast, he was a plain-looking fellow of an age not easy to determine; he could have been in his late twenties or his early fifties. His chin was bare beneath flat features, and his head was topped with a mass of short brown tresses. His garments were of a simple fashion, a dusty robe with the hood riding behind the man’s neck. About his midriff was wrapped a course rope. The source of the flowering light was from another rope, this one short and ending in a noose, hanging from where it was nailed atop a tall staff the rider carried high.
Bayne did not know this man, but that inner knowledge deep in the back of his mind told him the fellow wore the garb of a religious principal, a cleric or perhaps a monk. Bayne too did not recognize the short noose, but it seemed to him to be a symbol, a sign of importance. Was this another Trodan challenger? It seemed unlikely. But Bayne would be on his guard. Verkanus might not be the only mage in this war.
The rider lowered his staff and the light died away just as the donkey came to a halt within rock-tossing distance of the warrior with the large sword.
“Hail,” said the rider, dropping his reins and holding up his free hand.
Bayne nodded back.
The priestly fellow climbed out of his saddle and approached gradually, pulling his
animal along with him and walking with his staff. “It would seem we are at an impasse.”
“You wear no armor and carry no arms other than your stick,” Bayne said. “Leave the field of battle and no harm will come to you.”
“And if I do not?”
“Then you are a fool who will die along with the rest of these Trodan slavers.”
“Slavers?” The man’s face screwed up in confusion and curiosity.
“You heard me correctly.”
“We Trodans are no slavers,” the priestly fellow said. “It is a repugnant practice and against the laws of our land.”
“I have been told otherwise,” Bayne said.
The stranger shook his head. “You have been ill informed, then. I suppose it was Emperor Verkanus who told you thus?”
“It was,” Bayne admitted.
“He is a deceiver, that man.”
“I know not,” Bayne said, “and I see no reason to trust your word over his.”
“Well.” The other man gave a short bow, little more than a bob of the head. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pedrague, high minister of Holy Ashal, the God Who Walked Among Men.”
Bayne scoffed. “Your gods mean nothing to me, little priest.”
Pedrague seemed taken aback by the sturdiness of the warrior’s words. “It would appear Verkanus has chosen well in his champion. I assume you are supposed to be a demon he brought forth, though I’ve never witnessed such a demon as you.”
“No demon. To my knowledge, I am only a man.”
The priest’s gaze narrowed. “You, my friend, are obviously much more than a man. No man could leave a swath of death behind him such as you have done.”
“Nor am I your friend, priest,” Bayne said. “Is there a meaning behind your words? Is there a reason we are speaking before I crush your skull and take your head from your body?”
Pedrague chuckled. “And a moment ago you were promising no harm to myself.”
“Only if you left the field of battle. Which, so far, your mouth has not allowed you to do.”
The priest’s laughter died swiftly. “I am no swordsman, nor a soldier. I am here to speak to you of the impasse we are facing.”
“I see no impasse.”
“That does not mean there is not one,” Pedrague said. “Yes, you have dealt much death, and likely could continue to do so. However, eventually, probably after many Trodan deaths, the generals and their mages would find some way to halt you.”
Bayne snickered.
“Oh, they might not destroy you,” Pedrague went on, “but it is assured they would find some way of dealing with you. Sealing magics, perhaps, or some form of barrier that would impede your movement. Have no doubt about that, my friend. The Trodans are the most resourceful people in all the lands.”
“I have my doubts,” Bayne said. “Thus, I see no impasse.”
“That being the case,” Pedrague said, “I am here to appeal to you to step aside and allow this war to continue without your intrusion.”
“If Verkanus had summoned a demon, would it do as such?” Bayne asked, then provided his own answer. “I think not.”
“As you have pointed out,” Pedrague said, “you are not a demon. You are a man, though an uncommon one. I hope to appeal to your sense of honor.”
Bayne puffed out his chest. “What makes you believe I have a sense of honor?”
“Most men of the sword do,” the priest of Ashal said. “That, or they are madmen who thrive on the bloodletting of others. You do not strike me as a madman.”
The big warrior chuckled once more. “I slay one of their officers, and the Trodans send me a priest who will not shut up. This is an unusual strategy.”
“No strategy. I had to beg the generals to allow me to come here. I wish to spare much death this day, and to bring Verkanus his rightful judgment.”
Bayne spat. “Who are you to judge?”
“Me?” The priest seemed taken back by the accusation, then his eyes grew dark and hooded. “I judge as do all good men who have suffered under the wrath of the emperor. It was Verkanus himself who slew his own son, Ashal, hanging him from a high tree. It was Verkanus who rode forth across Ursia and Pursia, bringing flame and death and decay and his bedeviled magics to all who would not bow to a knee before him. I stand here as a man who has lost much, my family, my father, my mother, my wife, my children, even my god, at the hands of Verkanus. Who am I to judge? I am a man destroyed by evil and reborn through the words of the Almighty Ashal. I am a man who will stand with righteousness against the evils of this world, and there is none more evil than Verkanus himself!”
The big warrior watched Pedrague’s chest heaving after such speech and such emotion. Still, Bayne crossed his arms and grinned.
“I suppose now you will mock me further,” the priest said.
“No.” Bayne shook his head. “It is obvious you are a man who believes in his cause.”
Pedrague drooped, suggesting he was nearing an end to his words with the emperor’s champion. “Where do we go from here?”
“What would you have of me?” Bayne asked. “Do you believe I can simply step aside?”
“Little hope of that,” Pedrague said, but then a glint appeared in his eyes. “However, if I were to prove to you the tyrant’s treachery, would you step aside then?”
Bayne sighed as he reached over his shoulder and drew forth his new, lengthy sword. “If Verkanus has dealt falsely with me, then I shall find my own vengeance against him.”
“There is another way,” Pedrague said, little above a whisper.
The tone of the cleric’s words were different than before, final, and this put Bayne on edge. The very air felt more chill, and the torch lights of the distant army dimmed. Bayne realized there was a subtle magic at work, the priest’s magic. So far the man had dealt openly and fairly with Bayne, but those last words and the magic in the air showed the situation had changed. Whether or not the priest meant Bayne ill, they had spoken long enough. Bayne had an army to destroy. It was time he returned to his bloody work.
“No more words,” the warrior said.
Then he bound forward, within striking distance of the cleric, and with both hands hefted his mighty sword overhead.
Pedrague lashed out with his staff.
The blow was an explosion. Wood cracked against steel, there was a flash of light and Bayne found himself flying through the air.
He landed in a heap of dead bodies, his already gore-covered frame once more layered in fresh red. Broken bones and fallen weapons and joints of armor scrapped against his bare arms and into the leathers of his legs. The wind was knocked from him, and he lay there a moment staring up at the graying sky, an early morning sky.
Bayne blinked, and suddenly he understood. In but a moment a thousand images and sounds and scents and emotions washed over him as if he were laying on a beach and covered by wave after wave. He saw the past, far and recent, and Verkanus was central to everything he witnessed. The king stood in golden armor by the ledge of a cliff, a kneeling woman nearby crying and reaching for a boy who stared out across a desolate valley beyond the cliff; the boy jumped off the precipice and the woman screamed and the king laughed. A flash. Verkanus once more, this time in scarlet robes, in a cave or dungeon or some underground pit; he used chalk to scrawl impure images upon the stone floor as he bargained with reptilian beasts that stood on legs as if men. Another flash. The king atop a hill, a mighty tree next to him from which was strung a length of rope; at the end of the rope was a noose, and hanging from the noose was a young man … the boy! It was the boy who had jumped from the cliff, now grown to be a man. But he was unmoving, hanging there with his feet inches above the ground. About the hill and the king was a throng, a mass of shrieking and shouting people, all calling for the youth’s death and for their emperor to lead them to … something. Flash. Men covered in oil and set aflame before their families. Screaming elders butchered, limb by limb, in front of their kin. Babes ripped from th
e arms of their mothers and their tiny skulls dashed against rocks. Children impaled alive.
Flash.
Bayne sat up slowly and rubbed at the back of his head. To his knowledge, he had never been struck so hard. It had hurt. For a moment, he had felt pain to his spine and his skull. The moment was past. But the visions in his mind, those he could not dismiss so easily. The emotions were the worst of it. He had seen Verkanus juxtaposed upon various scenes, witnessed it visually, but the roiling of the mad king’s inner self was what ate away at Bayne. The emperor was evil. If any man could be labeled such, it was Verkanus. His armies had raged across continents, torturing and murdering along the way, all for the king’s glory. He had slain his own son, slipping the noose over the young man’s head himself. And why? Jealousy. The boy had grown into godhood, and Verkanus would not suffer that. The emotions and events went beyond that, however. Verkanus craved all. He yearned for total domination, to control everything and everyone. He was not above any offense in seeking such. He would do anything.
Including lie.
Bayne had been betrayed. His might had been purchased upon a promise of untruths. He had been leery of the emperor from the beginning, but had grasped at the slightest hint of aid in discovering his own truth. Verkanus had brought him here, thus Verkanus could send him back from wherever he had come, or Verkanus could at least discover who or what Bayne was.
But that was not too be.
Bayne knew this now, felt the coldness of it inside himself as if his bones were iron.
He glanced about and found his sword next to him. He retrieved the heavy weapon and gradually stood, then returned the sword to its home on his back.
Pedrague still stood where he had, now more than a dozen steps away, his staff gripped in both hands across his chest.
“So, the priest bares his teeth,” Bayne said.
“Ashal lends me his strength,” Pedrague said, the top of his weapon aglow once more, “but I hope he has lent me his wisdom as well.”
