by Ty Johnston
Then he noticed his chain shirt had been removed and replaced with a simple tunic of a thin, white cloth.
Bayne gritted his teeth. First, his sword. Now, his armor. What more could they take from him? His freedom they already had, but he inwardly swore that would not be a permanent situation. Normally he was not a man to hold to material goods, but he had had little enough in this world, only what he could carry, and now that small amount had been taken from him. He could replace the sword, and the mail, but they would have been important in his attempt to escape this madness.
He rolled to one side on the smooth floor, his leggings and chains and shackles heavy enough to nearly unbalance him and send him flat to the ground, but he cursed beneath his breath and forced his muscles to work and lift and pry him up to a standing position.
Once on his feet, he found he could barely move. Another chain, this one bulky and seemingly made of some kind of poured stone, connected the links between his feet to an iron ring in the wall directly behind him.
The wall. It was of metal, smooth and silvered, though murky. He could not make out his own features in that wall, but he could see a vague form that shuffled about.
Curious, Bayne turned slowly, becoming familiar with his vicinity.
The only light source was a single glowing rectangle above Bayne’s head in the center of the room’s ceiling. Magical light, Bayne surmised, as there was no flicker of flame nor a smell of oil or peat or any other kind of fuel.
The room itself was quite large for a prison cell. If Bayne had been free, it would have taken him at least a half a minute to simply walk the length of the room. The width was not so much, but it still provided plenty of space.
There was no bed here, no latrine, no table, no chair. Nothing. But his chains.
Across the width of the room from Bayne, the wall there was different from the others. It was made mostly of steel plates, but there was an oblong pane of glass inset into the wall at about the level of Bayne’s eyes. Beyond the glass was merely more steel plating, and he wondered what use this window provided. Was it some form of illusion? Did the plating behind the wall slide away to reveal another room? Or was it some manner used to spy upon him?
Those thoughts brought him around to looking for a door. There was not one he could easily spot, though the wall far to his left had simple, rectangular markings that could be an almost hidden exit.
Bayne sniffed. The only smell he could detect was a faint oiliness.
He closed his eyes to better his hearing. There was little noise, only a distant humming sound within the walls.
Keeping his lids shut, he allowed himself to feel. The room was comfortable. Unlike the sheriff’s office and the deputies’ station, there was no cool breeze blowing on him from above. Though the room was not overly hot. It was about as perfect a temperature as Bayne could have asked for.
He had his surroundings, now. So, what to do?
He gently tried to pry his wrists further apart, but the chain there became taut instantly. He shook his wrists; there was no give in the shackles, the stone tight against his flesh. He shook one leg, then the other, but with no results that were heartening.
He bent nearly double and with both hands grabbed the chain snaking from the wall. He growled and grunted and gripped the chain, tugging and pulling, but all he managed to do was break a sweat on his hairless head.
Bayne stood, stretching to his full height despite the weight of the chains and shackles.
So, they had bound him quite well. Still, he would not surrender hope. There had to be a way to free himself. Bayne was unlike any other man, this he knew, and chains that would bind normal mortals were but like toys to him. True, it seemed the people of this strange land had been prepared to deal with the likes of him, but he was positive he could surprise and overcome.
A hissing noise as of air being blown through a small tube caught Bayne’s attention and he slowly spun about, his anklets clanking along with him.
The steel plates behind the long glass window had disappeared, possibly having slid into the wall much as had the doors of the sheriff’s station. Beyond the clear glass was another room as long and wide as that in which Bayne found himself imprisoned. This new room was different in several ways, however. For one, the walls were all a pasty white, and as best as Bayne could tell from his limited position, there were two wooden doors leading into the room, one door on the far right wall and the other in the far left wall.
Bayne struggled to near the window, but to no use. The chain connecting him to the wall opposite the glass was too short. He could only reach halfway across his own chamber before he had to halt.
A metallic voice crackled from somewhere overhead. “The forum is now open! The forum is now open!”
The chained warrior glared at the ceiling, looking from corner to corner to find from exactly where that strange voice had come. It had barely sounded human, dry and almost stilted as if the speaker were not familiar with the language.
Clickety noises and the sounds of door knobs being turned and doors swifting open came to Bayne’s ears. As the bangings and shufflings were coming from the room beyond the glass, Bayne turned his attention in that direction.
The two wooden doors within the far room had indeed been opened. The door to the left hung back against the wall, revealing little of another room or perhaps a hallway beyond. To the right, the door there was also open with a similar view.
The voice from above returned. “All forum members may now enter!”
Bayne had little time to ponder these words. Suddenly a line of people, if human was what they were, were pouring into the room from the door on the right. Each wore a gray or white robe that covered their frames from the neck all the way to the floor where the ends of the robes swayed.
Covering the faces of these newcomers were white masks that appeared to be of carved wood. Upon those masks a circle of red had been painted upon each cheek. The false faces were all different from one another, but their styles showed they had come from the hands of one sculptor. Each mask was unique in its carving, some with big and bold eyes, others with tiny, wincing eyes. Some had slits for mouths, others sported wide grins above big chins. Some had blocked features, others smooth. Each face held an exaggerated expression of anger or sadness or mirth.
The seemingly endless line of masked people made its way up to the glass, peered into Bayne’s room, then proceeded out the door on the left-hand wall.
As the group worked its way through the other room, Bayne tried to count their numbers. But it quickly became an impossible task. The line did not stop. More and more oddly-garbed, masked figures piled into the room, approached the window to stare at him, then moved on. It seemed as if the gawkers were in endless numbers.
“Contact is now allowed!” that voice from above shouted.
The mob awoke into motion, individuals pointing and waving through the glass at Bayne. Some appeared to laugh, holding their stomachs and shaking. Others pointed a twirling finger at the side of their head. Still others gave off sharp motions of the hands or arms, movements that appeared as if they might be some symbols of vulgarity.
But all were quiet.
Bayne stood there and stared at the silent madness. Who were these fools? What did they believe they were accomplishing? Obviously they were there to mock him. Was Bayne their sport? What was all this?
“Commence!” that metal voice screeched.
The air was filled with bellows, cheers and clamoring.
“You fool!”
“You bastard!”
“You deserve to die!”
“You’re mother’s a whore!”
The voices of insanity we’re coming from the never-ending masked line. They continued to point and make all kinds of erratic motions, all seemingly aimed at Bayne. They shouted and screeched and clawed at the window as if Bayne were some beast, some monster that had slain their families, murdered their children, affronted their very gods and existences.
“Abomination!”
“Idolater!”
“Lay down and die!”
“I’ve seen stronger women!”
The articulations and calls and cheers and jeers went on and on and on as the crowd flowed past the window.
Bayne stared. He did not know how to react to such verbal assaults, especially as he had no recourse to fight back. What could he do? What madness was this? These insults, they did not sting. They seemed silly, almost childish. Were the men and women of this world so dulled that this was their form of entertainment, to lash out at convicted men?
“You’re not even a man!”
“There’s nothing between your legs!”
“Whore son!”
“Tax avoider!”
Now Bayne could but grin. If this was entertainment for the masses, he believed he was getting the better part of the bargain, though he admitted this parade of buffoons would soon grow tiresome.
“Die! Die! Die!”
“You lie with dogs!”
“Burn, freak!”
“Monster!”
Fingers pointing. Masks tilting. Cloaks waving. And still that line did not cease.
Bayne found himself warm. Before the room had felt near perfect, but now a sweat had broken on his pale head. Perhaps the other room filling up had done this to his chamber. He did not know. He strained to reach up with his linked hands to wipe away the water trickling upon his face.
“Stand down!” It was the voice from above.
Those in the other room went quiet and still, none moving. The line had stopped, all those fake faces staring at the chained warrior.
“What?” Bayne asked, rubbing away sweat above his brows. Had that voice been speaking to him? What had he done?
“Lower your arms!” the voice said. “Now! That is an order!”
So, someone other than the masked fools was paying attention.
Bayne’s grin grew but wider.
“Come into my room and force my arms lower,” he said to the ceiling.
There was a gasp from the masked folk. They visibly withdrew, taking steps away from the glass.
Then they erupted. Like mad dogs, scratching at the glass with their fingers, hammering with fists, clawing and snarling and howling. In the excitement and the tumult, some few masks fell away, the strings that had held them around the heads having broken or slipped down. For the first time, Bayne saw faces. They were men and women, young and old, pale and dark, all colors and sizes. There was great diversity in their numbers.
Those with falling masks went quiet and appeared afraid, lifting their arms to shield their faces as they ran toward the exit.
They feared him.
He would improve upon that fear.
Bayne pointed at the masked ones. “I see you!” he shouted above the roar of the mad crowd. “I see your faces and I will recognize every one of you!”
The line broke. Even those with faces covered shrieked in fright and jumped back from the glass. They ran as if a devil itself were chasing them, and soon they were out the door, the last of the runners slamming it closed behind them. The door opposite as well closed.
Silence rolled over Bayne once more.
“You will pay for that,” said the voice above, this time softer.
“Then come and collect,” Bayne said back.
The response was a click and the accustomed hissing sound of one of the wall doors sliding open to vanish inside the wall itself. It was an opening, an exit to freedom, in the far left wall in Bayne’s cell. He had thought there might be a doorway there and was now proven correct. Beyond lay white walls and a white floor and a white ceiling, the glow of light coming from that ceiling.
A figure appeared in the doorway. It was a man in a black uniform with a white helmet atop his head. His features were hidden behind a curved plate of mirrored glass fronting the helmet, and one of the black stick weapons was gripped tight in a hand hanging at his side.
Bayne noticed the man’s weapon was not of the type with the glass ball at the end. This weapon was one like that of Deputy Walticoff in the woods. A nut-sized hole filled most of one end of the staff.
The man motioned toward Bayne with the stick. “Keep your arms down and stand back against the wall.”
Fools. He would be free. Bayne rattled the shackles of his hands. “Release me!”
The uniformed guard raised his staff and pointed it at the warrior. “Do as you’re told!”
“No!” Bayne lifted his cuffed hands above his head, shaking and rattling the chains further.
The guard’s thumb slid along the staff and there was a slight projection of smoke.
Bayne knew what to expect. An invisible hammer slammed against his shoulders, knocking him to the ground. As strong as he was, this magic was one he could not resist. There was little pain, merely a pressure against his flesh and body, but whatever created this power was one he so far had had no hope of defeating.
The guard took a step nearer the downed warrior. “Now crawl back to the wall!” the man shouted.
Bayne would not do as he was told. He would refuse all orders from these idiots. Their rules seemed to not allow them to slay them, so what harm could befall him? They could continue to humiliate him, to bind him and keep him imprisoned, but sooner or later he would find a way to escape. And then they would pay. They would all pay. In a world of madness, Bayne felt no compunctions of slaying the maddest of all, those who enforced the rules.
Bayne raised his head from the floor.
“Down!” the guard yelled. “Return to the wall! Now!”
Bayne was about to climb to his feet again, to be defiant to the end, whatever end that might be, when he took note of something. There was a miniscule crack the width of a leaf in one of the links of the chain connecting his wrists. That crack had not been there but minutes earlier, Bayne was sure of it. He could only think of one thing that could have brought about that thin line in the metal.
The guard’s magic weapon.
Bayne grinned and gave the guard a dark look. “You’ll have to kill me.” Then he climbed to one knee.
Before he could stand full, the guard lifted back the glass shield covering his face and waved the wand. Smoke puffed out. That giant, invisible fist blasted Bayne across the chest, sending the big man careening backwards off his feet.
Laying there, giving himself precious moments to catch his breath, Bayne gently tugged at his bracelets. There was some give there, just a little, more than there had been.
He sat up, glanced down at the chain in his lap. The crack had grown wider. More importantly, other cracks had appeared, three of them in other links. Too, there was another breach, a narrow chink in the thick cuffs on his right hand.
“Down!” the guard yelled.
Bayne shot the man an evil look, then held up his arms.
Again with the wand. Again a puff of smoke. And again, the unseen giant battered the warrior, rolling Bayne back until he was nearly touching the metal wall behind him.
The swordsman grimaced as he shoved himself up on one elbow. That last blow had been the hardest yet. Could this magical tool kill him? He did not know. He did not care. His search for his own past had become useless. He was never to see the woman Valdra again. He was likely never to return to the world of Ursia. Also, there was little chance he would ever see his friend Pedrague again. Why live if imprisonment was all life had to offer?
But there was still the chance he could go free.
He shifted to one knee again and glanced down, his head turned away so the guard could not see where he was looking.
Now the breaks in the chain had widened to more than cracks, to fissures, gaps in the metal. Bayne was positive he could bend these broken links to free his hands, if only he were alone and given the time. A quick look down revealed something else, as well. The chain connecting his shackled feet to the wall had been shattered; it lay in multiple links. He
was, after all, somewhat free.
Better yet, Bayne realized, his sizable and well-muscled body hid much of the damage to the chains from the sole guard in the room. Perhaps there was still a chance.
But not yet. Not while he was still somewhat bound.
He jumped to his feet, but did not turn to face the guard.
“Damn you!” the guard shouted. “I told you to get down!”
The puff of smoke.
This time the unseen blast caught Bayne on the side of the head, slamming him against the metal wall where he crumpled to the floor, his brain throbbing and his vision blurred. Still, little pain, but the warrior recognized that a lesser man would have been felled permanently by such a blow.
Bayne lay there crumpled. Let it look worse than it actually is. Wait for an opportunity.
“Now don’t get up!” the guard shouted.
Bayne could not see the man as the warrior’s face was turned away, against the cool smoothness of the wall, but he heard the clopping of the fellow’s boots. Was he drawing nearer?
No.
Bayne heard the man’s voice near the exit. The guard’s speech was lower now, less threatening. “This is four-oh-four reporting. He seems to be down for the moment, but it was touch and go. This is one strong bull we’ve got here. Recommendation?”
There was a crackling sound followed by another voice, this one buzzing and similar to the crackling one from the ceiling. “Lock and proceed, four-oh-four. Distillation team will commence with operation soon.”
“Very well,” the guard said.
Then the clunking of his boots could be heard once more, but they were distant, almost fading.
Was the man leaving? Bayne could not have that.
He rolled over, pouncing onto his feet, the chains now loose and jangling between his hands.
The guard was across the room, walking out the doorway.
“Stop!” Bayne yelled. It was all he could think to say.
The shout jerked the surprised guard around. He swung with his weapon extended in a shaking hand, as if expecting to be assaulted.
