The Sword Of Bayne Omnibus

by Ty Johnston

  Another waft of smoke.

  And Bayne went down, clapped to the floor with a metallic ringing, his arms suddenly freed and splayed out above him, his legs also untethered, one outstretched and the other bent nearly beneath him. For long moments it was all the big warrior could do to draw in a precious breath.

  Then he realized he was no longer tied down.

  Bayne looked up.

  The guard stood where he had, his knees trembling, his eyes wide.

  Slowly, keeping his gaze upon the other man, Bayne rolled over and pushed himself off the ground.

  The guard slapped a small silver box on one of his shoulders and yelled into it, “Code scree! Code scree!”

  Then all hell seemed to break loose.

  A klaxon ringing overhead struck at Bayne’s ears so strong the big man had to slap his hands to the sides of his head.

  The guard’s reaction was much the same. He clutched at the side of his helmet and screamed in near pain, the noise lost within the din of the alarm.

  Bayne saw his chance. His hands about his head, he charged for the guard.

  Then another three men in glass-fronted helmets and black uniforms were in the doorway. Each sported one of the sticks with the glass bulbs in the end.

  Bayne did not stop running. He swore he would not be captured again in this strange land.

  The three appeared unaffected by the screaming horn overhead and flowed around their comrade, staffs out and ready to deal with the muscle-bound prisoner confronting them.

  But Bayne knew the touch of those sticks. A graze would take him down. This time, however, he was prepared.

  He skidded to a halt just out of reach of his foes, the bottoms of his boots skipping along the smooth floor.

  The three were impatient. They pounced.

  The swordsman dropped, spinning out with one leg extended. His boot, weighted still by the thick shackle, struck a pair of ankles and sent one guard tumbling to the ground. Before the others could react, Bayne rotated on his back and planted a fist in the groin of the downed man, who let out a cry as loud as the klaxon above as he dropped his weapon.

  The two guards standing lifted their sticks for the attack, but appeared astounded at the swiftness of their opponent, the manacles still encircling his wrists and ankles and the various broken chains hanging from him.

  Bayne took advantage of the surprise he held and climbed over the screaming guard, thrusting out a hand and reaching, reaching, reaching.

  His fingers wrapped around what he sought. One of the sticks with the clear globe on the end. The one dropped by the screamer.

  The warrior flipped around on his back, plopping on the floor next to the moaning guard.

  The two standing over their injured companion and the contorting prisoner had seen enough. Both swung their weapons, aiming for the big man who was now armed.

  But Bayne did not wait for the blows, seemingly slow to him, an experienced man of swift action now facing the brunt of an attack by simpletons more familiar with beating down the defenseless. He thrust up his newly-acquired club, blocking the strike of the man on his left, and kicked out, connecting with the knee of the other fellow.

  There was a crack and a scream and the kicked guard dropped to his hands and knees as his helmet fell from his head and rolled away.

  Where Bayne promptly struck him against the neck with the glass ball at the end of his weapon.

  The effect was instantaneous. The stricken guard’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell over on his side, his arms and legs curling up in front of him until he was in a fetal position, foam flowing from his mouth, his eyelids quivering.

  Bayne gave the man no more thought. There were other opponents to face.

  He gyrated around until he was on one knee, bringing up his staff just in time to knock aside an attack from the lone guard still standing. A counter-slap of his stick connected with the guard’s leg.

  Again, the effect occurred immediately. The last guard on his feet dropped and curled up.

  Bayne jumped up and spun toward the door. The guard with the invisible-hammer weapon was gone, having fled during the melee.

  The klaxon continued to blare above, now joined by a voice every few seconds that screamed, “Prisoner escape! Prisoner escape!”

  There was a click and a hiss.

  The door to the cell was sliding closed.

  Bayne dove, flinging ahead his arms, his new weapon extended before him.

  Just before the door could connect with the wall, he stuck an arm through, the one holding the staff. Bayne had expected he might lose the arm, that the metal door might simply slice through his flesh and bone, or that he might become entrapped, locked into the door itself.

  Instead, the door slid back into the wall.

  The swordsman could but laugh before charging out the exit into the white hall beyond, a hall which appeared to extend straight ahead as far as he could see, silver doors inset into the walls on the left and right every dozen or so yards. In the ceiling every so often were glass shields, behind which glared bright lights, and from these also came the never-ending blare of that annoying, sonorous alarm and the screaming voice.

  “Prisoner excel eleven has escaped! Proceed to section five, plan B!”

  Bayne was not going to wait and see what was to happen, whether more guards were to appear or another fate, possibly worse, would greet him.

  He ran.

  And ran and ran, the hall never seeming to end. Bayne expected at any moment for one of the many doors to slide or spring open and guards to come pouring out on top of him, or for one of the guards from his former cell to recover and come charging after him, but none of that happened.

  Eventually the loud alarm above began to fade along with that annoying, screeching voice. The only sounds were the slappings of Bayne’s leather soles upon the white, ceramic-looking floor and his labored breathing.

  He slowed, glancing over his shoulder.

  No guards. No enemy of any kind.

  He halted, firmly planting his boots on the floor. Ahead, the hall seemed to continue forever and ever.

  Was this a trick? Why were there no guards pursuing him? And how long could this hallway actually be?

  Bayne stared about, up and down the hall. Doors everywhere, but no end of the hall in sight.

  He would have to try one of the doors. There was no other way.

  His strange weapon gripped in his left hand and ready to strike out, Bayne approached the nearest of the metal portals.

  It opened, sliding into the wall.

  Bayne crouched, ready for anything.

  Beyond the opening was a simple room, plain with pale tiles for flooring and metal for the walls and the ceiling. Across the short distance to the next wall was another door, this one of wood and sporting a bronze knob.

  Bayne hesitated. This could be another cell, or perhaps some new trap. But what did he have to lose? He needed out, he needed his freedom, and he would not gain that without taking chances.

  He bound into the room and across. The door to the hall slid closed behind him. Never stopping his momentum, Bayne grabbed at the door knob, turned it and tugged.

  The door swung open towards him, revealing beyond a gigantic chamber stretching to the ends of the warrior’s vision, even the ceiling rising up and up beyond the scope of sight. Everything was lit with bright globes of light floating unmoving in the air throughout this massive room; some of the luminescent globes were near the ground, but many more were up high, reaching up and up into the sky of this giant space. The floor was of green padded tiles and here and there upon them were built scaffoldings of metal tubes and steel planks that rose up and up to heights beyond Bayne’s measure. The walls were too far to be seen, but Bayne felt their presence; this was not the outdoors, but the insides of some massive structure.

  Throughout this floor of the room were multitudes of metal desks like those from the sheriff’s building, and they stretched forth in rows upon rows seemi
ngly into infinity. Or at least to wherever the walls existed. Around and upon these tables were chairs and papers and little black boxes and big silver boxes and glass boxes that glowed with faint light and all kinds of objects with which Bayne was unfamiliar. He supposed these objects were more of this strange world’s magic at work.

  As for people, they were in the hundreds, perhaps thousands, scattered here and there throughout and all over the big place, some even climbing the scaffoldings. Nearly all wore the black garb of the guards who had recently confronted Bayne, but some few were wearing the gray uniforms of the deputies. All these people appeared to be busy at some work or another. Some sat at desks, their fingers punching away at objects on the desks’ tops. Others were milling around in groups next to tall glass barrels filled with water, the people there chatting away with smiles on their faces. Still others were walking swiftly back and forth and all around the chamber, going from desk to desk or crossing the massive room.

  None seemed to pay the slightest attention to the recently-escaped warrior. And none of them appeared armed.

  Which was fine with Bayne.

  Silent, so as to keep any element of surprise he might have, Bayne took off at a trot. His destination was the nearest desk. His goal was to launch himself upon it, dive over and keep running and running and running. Eventually he would have to come to the walls. Where there were walls, there would be doors. Doors could lead to the outside, to his freedom.

  But his plan did not work that way.

  The big warrior had taken barely a half dozen strides, the last of his shackles and chains finally falling from him in cracked and broken pieces, when a shout went up.

  There was a scream, more shouting, and suddenly thousands or millions of eyes, seemingly of all those within the gigantic room, were upon him.

  Bayne did not stop running.

  One of the black-garbed guards, fists raised, jumped in his way. Bayne shoved him out of the way.

  Then the din of the klaxon returned, louder than ever, reverberating throughout the running warrior’s flesh and bones, shaking him to his very soul. The familiar voice followed. “Prisoner escape! Prisoner escape! Location: Main shaft! Prisoner escape!”

  But Bayne did not stop running.

  There were more screamings and hollerings and chaos erupted as the multitudes of guards were suddenly themselves running, most of them away from Bayne or across his path.

  Men knocked aside women, women trampled over men, guards slammed into one another in a frenzy to flee before this charging barbarian. Blood was splashed as individuals fell and their scalps crashed against the sharp edges of the metal desks. Bones were broken as people fell from the heights of the scaffolds to crash onto the tops of the desk. Bruises. More blood. Broken bones. Flesh laid open in some few instances.

  It was a mad house.

  Bayne used it all to his advantage. He reached that nearest desk, hopped atop it and dove forward, landing in a roll on the soft green floor on the other side. He came up on his feet to find three of the guards before him, their eyes filled with fear.

  Bayne roared.

  The three men turned and ran.

  The warrior chuckled and sprinted ahead, ignoring the cowards. He glanced from side to side, seeking the walls, seeking doors, seeking any exits. He found none. There were not even windows. One swift look back showed him from where he had come, the wooden door hanging open in a metal wall there.

  Bayne skidded to a halt and stared at that wall. It was the only wall in evidence, rising to the heights of a half dozen men. Atop where the wall ended was nothing Bayne could see other than metal tubes from more scaffolds stretching up into the giant room’s sky. Other doors were ensconced within that wall, at least a dozen. Was their access to the outside through one of them? Bayne thought not. His guess was those doors led to other small rooms which eventually gave access to the tunnel through which he had fled. But the scaffoldings? They reached up and up. Was there perhaps a way outside by climbing? Maybe there were windows up higher, or doors.

  The warrior was determined to find out. He turned to one side and darted for the nearest network of climbing pipes and lumber.

  Suddenly there was a ring of guards around him. Despite the chaos ensuing, the screamings and hysteria, a group had come together to deal with this escapee.

  None of them were armed, the fools.

  Bayne waded into them, smacking out with his magic staff to strike one fellow against the side of the head and to send him dropping to the ground with a shudder. Another guard fared worse, a fist jammed beneath his chin crushing his trachea and cutting off all air forever. Bayne lowered his head and tackled one poor soul directly ahead of him, his left shoulder slamming into the man’s chest and sending him reeling over a desk.

  The other guards fled, leaving their fallen behind.

  Bayne kept running.

  Then, a scaffold, directly in front of him. He tucked his weapon inside his belt and jumped up, his strong fingers grasping for and wrapping around the metal bars of a ladder built into the side of the framework.

  Bayne climbed. Yet again, he climbed, as he had on the mountain before and as he had always done since his first awakening in Ursia. He climbed into the future. He climbed into the past. He climbed into the unknown. What other choice was there for him, a man without a past and without a future? A man with so many unknowns, there was nothing left to him but freedom itself.

  So he climbed, hand over hand, foot over foot.

  The chaos below ensued, but it had calmed somewhat. Fewer were running around in a panic, and the alarm had quietened again finally.

  Still, one quick glance below told Bayne he was not yet free of these people. There was a gathering of a dozen or so of the guards at the base of the scaffold, all staring up at him. And now some of these men bore weapons, those strange sticks.

  Bayne could only keep climbing, rung after rung.

  A black stick was thrust out at him, the glass bulb at the end missing his face by inches. Bayne flinched to one side, the move possibly saving him. He was on the outside of the scaffolding, hanging from a ladder, but on one of the steel planks on the inside crouched one of the guards, now drawing back his staff for another strike.

  Bayne rushed out a hand through an opening in the ladder, grabbing his attacker by a black collar. Then the warrior tugged, slamming the guard’s head into a metal rung, splitting flesh and drawing blood. The guard’s eyes rolled back in his head and Bayne shoved him to crash onto his back on the scaffold’s landing.

  More climbing.

  And climbing.

  And climbing.

  Letting nothing distract him. Nothing deter him. Nothing destroy him.

  Was that a ceiling above? Far in the distance, a gray wall overhead? Was it?

  An explosion. Metal erupted and twisted in the air about the big warrior, and he found himself thrown back from the scaffold, momentarily hanging in the air.

  Then he was falling.

  Bayne had but a moment to glance back to where he had been. There was another guard standing there on one of the planks, one of the black puff sticks in his hand. It had been one of those unseen hammers that had knocked him from his perch.

  Falling and falling, Bayne had time to roll over in the air to see his fate approaching faster and faster. He had been high in his climb, higher than the tallest of Ursian towers. As the floor approached, he wondered if he could even survive such a plummet.

  The guards who had been awaiting him at the bottom scattered.

  Bayne hit.

  His body bounced, he had hit the ground so hard. And cracks appeared in the green floor spreading out from his form.

  There was silence.

  He lay there. Unmoving. Not even breathing. Was he alive, still?

  Yes. But was there pain? No. Bayne had to admit, he felt fine. Perhaps his spine had snapped, leaving him with no feelings.

  Only one way to find out.

  His palms flat against the shattered f
looring, he pushed up, lifting himself.

  Still, no pain.

  He allowed a breath and stared about. There was now a ring of the guards about him, all staring in shock at his survival.

  He had but seconds. He must use surprise before his enemies recovered themselves.

  Bayne jumped to his feet and waded into his foes, his fists flying. As he nailed a blow against a guard’s face, crushing the man’s nose flat with a crunch, Bayne’s only wish was that he had his sword. With the sword he could chop through these fools in a matter of seconds.

  As it was, his brawn and skill did just as well.

  An elbow cracked across a throat, choking a fellow to his knees. A leather boot punted against another guard’s groin, causing him to scream for mercy before falling and pulling himself into a ball on the ground. Bayne’s wide, bald head snapped forward, crushing a skull and killing a man instantly.

  All happened in a blur in a matter of seconds.

  The rest of the guards were not fools. With shouts of fear, they fled. From above, it would have looked like an exploding flower of dark-garbed figures springing away from a bloodied center.

  Bayne paused, catching his breath and staring about to make sure there were no more immediate threats. For the first time he noticed the black stick weapon in his belt had cracked, shattered likely in his fall from the heights. He yanked the broken magic club from his belt and tossed it atop one of the the desks as he shot a glance upward to the scaffoldings.

  He was being watched. There were still dozens of the guards up on the frameworks, hesitation and downright trepidation in their nervous glances and shivering knees, but they remained, enthralled by the spectacle of violence.

  Bayne grinned. The fighting so far had been only minor, but his battle blood was now warmed and ready for more. Again, he wished he had his sword, but he would make do.

  First, there was his freedom to ascertain.

  He took off at a sprint once more, bouncing over downed guards and dodging past desks. No one threatened him now as he found himself galloping along an aisle of furniture. The heavy muscles of his thighs moved him forward as if he were a wild animal on the hunt targeting a distant prey. For Bayne, that prey was a wall, a door, the outdoors, freedom.