by Ty Johnston
“How do I accomplish this?”
Her red grin widened. “You never show fear.”
“There is no need,” he said. “I will not fail whatever task you set for me.”
“The crown upon Marnok’s head,” Valdra said, “within it there are encrusted many fine gems of antiquity. While Marnok has his own … internal … sources of power, as do you and I, it is a power within those gems that magnifies his strength, his abilities. You must take this crown from him, destroy it if you wish. Then you will stand on even footing with Marnok. Then you can hope to defeat him. In this time, my time, it is too late. But in your future, there is still an opportunity. Free yourself, and free our world.”
She collapsed forward, her chest striking the ground as her mouth went wide and a stream of dark fluid flooded out onto the ground. Her lungs heaved as she retched blood and bile and internal poisons. Her shoulders shook, her head drooped even further into her own filth.
Bayne wrapped an arm around her shoulders, gently, not squeezing. He had witnessed many deaths over the years, and he recognized another one when it was before him. There was naught he could do for her but quest for vengeance.
Her head turned to one side so that a single dim eye stared up at him. “Remember me,” she said.
“Always.”
Her chest heaved. One last time.
That single eye closed.
There was no lurching this time, no awkwardness in the transition. One moment Bayne was kneeling in muck next to a dead woman, the next he was kneeling on white marble. He was back in his proper time, in the place of Marnok the king, the king who must have dropped him or placed him on the floor, as Bayne was no longer in the grip of the gigantic god.
His eyes rimmed in red, Bayne glared up from the bottom of the stairs.
There sat the king, haughty upon his throne of stone, as if he had not a care in the world.
“You know who you are now,” Marnok stated.
The truth was Bayne did know who he was, or at least who he had become. His past memories had still not returned to him, if that indeed was what Marnok had hoped to accomplish, but Valdra’s involvement had opened Bayne’s eyes. It mattered little who he had been. What was of import was what he had become, what he was now.
And right now he was a man, a god, who wanted to rip the throat from the king of this awful, strange world.
But he would bide his time. Bayne realized a frontal assault would do him little good. Valdra had shown him the way. It was not natural for him to use guile, but that was what he must do to retrieve the crown, possibly to destroy it. There seemed one most logical way to accomplish this.
Bayne stood and wiped his eyes clear. He then glared at Marnok once more. “I will do as you want. I will take your place as king.”
Marnok grinned and stood, slapping his hands together in obvious joy. “Good! But tell me, what did you see of our past?”
What was there to say? Valdra had stepped in and pulled Bayne from whatever visions Marnok had wanted him to see. To tell the truth was not an option. But to lie, Bayne would have to be careful.
Keeping with his warrior’s ways, he merely shrugged, then said, “The past is the past. My eyes have been opened. I, too, am tired, tired of wandering without knowing myself. Now I have learned the truth, and what better role for me than to take the place of king?”
The answer seemed appropriate, to mollify any concerns Marnok might have. He smiled. “Good. I am glad to see you recognize your proper place upon the throne.”
“How do we do this?” Bayne asked. “Is there some ceremony?”
“I will make it a brief one,” Marnok said as he sauntered down from the throne, each sandaled step smacking upon marble with a resonant slap. “I will call forth my priests, those few remaining of my old cult, and we can accomplish the transition of power here within the hour.”
“And I will become king?”
Marnok reached the bottom of the steps and halted within reach of Bayne. “Yes.”
“The kingdom will be mine? Along with the throne?”
“Yes, all of it.”
“And the crown?”
Marnok frowned. “The crown?”
“Yes, the crown.”
The king faltered, hesitating, then, “We will have a new crown cast for you, something to signify your power and sovereignty.”
Bayne almost laughed. Of course he would not gain the crown in such a simple fashion. It was time to change tactics.
The warrior turned from the king and faced the long, giant throne room. “When I arrived in this world, I brought with me a shirt of chain and a large sword. I would have them returned.”
“Very well,” Marnok said as he moved around to one side, to better witness the future king. “I see not why you need such rudimentary devices, but they will be made available to you.”
Bayne turned his head to glare at the god. “Now.”
For the briefest of moments, there was surprise and perhaps a touch of fear in Marnok’s eyes. Then he regained himself and glared back. “In good time. There is much to do before you can sit on the throne.”
The king walked to one of the tall white columns on one side of the chamber and pressed a small nearly-unseen panel in the pillar. The distant gonging of a heavy bell sounded dim through the walls of the room.
Marnok turned back upon Bayne. “My priests will be here shortly.”
Bayne nodded. “Good. Then we have some little time. I have questions for you.”
“Ask.”
“Why did you make this world the way it is?” Bayne said, spreading out his arms. “There is nonsense here, rules and laws of stupidity. Surely you know I will change all this once I am king.”
Marnok chuckled. “I believe you will find changing the laws of the land more difficult than you might perceive. Not impossible, of course, but I wish you well in the future struggles before you. The politicians and bureaucrats will attempt to eat you for a meal.”
“They will fail.”
“Of course, but prepare to be frustrated for a goodly period.”
“You have not answered my question.”
“Ah, yes,” the king said. “You wished to know about the laws of the land, and why I created them. For two purposes. One, during the last god war, I saw more bloodshed and waste of life than was necessary. Gods and generals fell, the mightiest of the lot, those who accomplish. The world should have no place for such. The sanctity of those who do became the measure of the land. I would allow no official takings of life, as it might interfere with leadership, with guidance.”
“The world is the world,” Bayne said, lowering his arms. “Some do not deserve to live, and some deserve punishment.”
Marnok nodded. “We had punishments. Prisons. Jails. Even lives spent in bondage, in some unique cases.”
“All expensive and wasteful,” Bayne said. “A knife across the throat would have been more expedient.”
“But more messy and full of misery,” Marnok said. “As things stand, I am positive you will … toughen this world of mine. So be it. I have grown tired of it.”
“Your other reason for such laws?”
“There are two powers in the world, in all worlds,” Marnok explained. “Magic and science.”
Bayne gave the king a confused look.
“Think of science as mechanics, alchemy. The sciences.”
Bayne nodded for Marnok to continue.
“Sometimes magic and science compliment one another, but it is uncommon,” the king said. “Each suffers from a singular opposing viewpoint of the universe. In the early days, when we fashioned our gods, we utilized both magic and science. We soon discovered only rarely could science best the power of our gods, but more frequently magic could be used as a tool, a weapon, against the divine. Once the war was concluded, I could not allow any challenges to the throne. Thus, I systematically went about removing magic as a social aspect from this world. Science I allowed to remain, as the populace benefited f
rom it.”
“The sanctity of those who accomplish,” Bayne said.
“Yes.” Marnok nodded.
The warrior guffawed. “I will most definitely be changing the ways of this world.”
“More power to you,” Marnok said. “But I fear you will find my ideas quite entrenched within the populace. Still, I have done my service to this world, and it is time to move on.”
“What will become of you?” Bayne asked.
Marnok grinned. “To tell the truth, I am not sure. I suppose I will travel to other worlds, perhaps even pay a visit to this Ursia from which you came. The important thing is for me to free myself from the chains of responsibility here.”
A figure cloaked in dark perse silently appeared between two columns the opposite side of the room from the two speakers, the newcomers face hidden beneath the darkness of a hood.
Marnok turned to face the figure. His smiled broadened. “My high priest arrives.”
The hood gestured toward the other two.
“My old friend,” Marnok said to the cloaked figure while waving one of his massive hands toward the throne, “the time has come to fulfill the plans about which we have spoken. A new champion is to be anointed.”
The hood nodded.
“Proceed as you have been instructed,” the king ordered.
With a final nod, the hood and cloak turned and drifted away to disappear between the two columns.
Only to reappear in a blink, followed by two more cowled figures.
A low murmur keened about the large chamber, drawing Bayne to glance along the length of the room. Between each of the columns were more hooded persons, perhaps a hundred in all. Each halted where the columns ended and the long red carpet began, their darkened faces low, seemingly staring at the floor.
The priest nearest Bayne, apparently the one who had visited but moments earlier, now carried a scarlet pillow before him in his dry, withered hands. Upon the pillow rested a golden key the size of a dagger.
The warrior glanced to the king. “This is part of the ceremony?”
“Yes.” Marnok turned away and tromped up the stairs to the throne where he sat once more, then waved for Bayne to approach.
Bayne did approach, gradually, taking each football one at a time.
When the warrior was several steps from the throne itself, Marnok held up a flat hand for Bayne to halt, which Bayne did.
“Kneel,” the king said.
Bayne knelt on one knee.
Behind the warrior could now be heard the soft drifting, sliding noises of cloaks and the gentle patters of soft-shod feet approaching.
Marnok grinned. “Today this world has a new king, and I have my freedom.” He stretched forth a hand to one side.
Where the priest with the pillow appeared around Bayne’s side, the pillow outstretched with the key, the priest lowering his head so his hood nearly touched the threaded edges of the pillow.
Marnok’s grin widened as he leaned forward and one of his monstrous hands stretched out for the key. His entire attention was locked upon that key.
Bayne sprang for the king.
He had waited patiently. He had hoped for the use of his sword, to extend his reach and his deadliness. But that was not to be. Now was the time to strike, while Marnok’s gaze was elsewhere.
The assault did not come as a complete surprise to the king. His one hand tightened about the key while his other swept up into his attacker’s path.
Hitting that arm was like hitting a stone wall, and any other man would have been felled then and there. But Bayne was not any other man. He grunted as the ruler’s elbow caught him in the stomach, but he wrapped his own mighty left arm around that massive limb, holding on with all the unnatural strength he bore. Bayne’s other hand extended past the king’s defenses, vying for the huge crown atop that mass of golden hair.
A finger grazed the crown, knocking it askew.
It was not enough.
Marnok roared, thrusting out both arms as he bound to his feet.
But Bayne would not release his grip upon the king’s right appendage. Fingers like steel gripped about muscles that in size could have belonged to a bull. The warrior was nearly toppled, lifted from his feet and shaken as if a rag doll, but he would not let go of that arm.
Marnok brought back his other arm, ready to deliver a pounding blow.
Booted feet kicked forward, connecting with the king’s chest, doing little harm but planting Bayne horizontally against the giant figure of the sovereign. The warrior’s hands twisted, burning the flesh of the arm he held.
The king’s fist wailed down, but Bayne was too swift. He saw the blow coming. He knew it would knock him to the floor away from the ruler and the crown and the key.
He let go of the arm, falling the short distance to the throne’s platform, landing hard on his back with a cracking noise but little pain.
Caught off guard, Marnok arrested his flying fist, his balance suddenly unstable through the awkwardness of his own acts and the loss of Bayne’s weight.
From the floor, Bayne kicked up and out with both legs. His boots clipped the back of Marnok’s right knee, pushing that knee forward while the king was unbalanced.
Marnok went crashing down, one leg beneath him as his back slammed against the throne and he was tossed forward down the royal steps.
Thunder followed, and screams of the hooded figures, as the sovereign buffeted each of the steps on his rolling trip down to the chamber’s floor. At the bottom, Marnok came to a halt, rolling onto his back with blood leaking from one corner of his mouth.
During the conflict, Bayne had not paid attention to the priest and the other cloaked people. Now he did. He rolled up onto his feet and stared about, ready for them to come to their master’s aid, ready for an assault.
There was none. At least not yet.
The priest was off to one side of the throne, his shaking hands still gripping the pillow before him, holding it to his chest. The other mysterious figures were scattered about the gigantic room, they too unmoving, their shoulders and hooded heads quivering. For the moment, uncertainty and fear ruled.
Why were they so afraid? Was not their god invincible?
Bayne spun about.
The crown.
It was no longer on the king’s head.
The swordsman’s eyes shot around, seeking and searching and yearning for that golden headdress. Where? Where? Where? It had to be somewhere!
There! On the seat of the throne. It must have fallen from the king’s head when Marnok had slammed against the royal seat.
Only inches from where Bayne stood.
The warrior lunged.
The priest tried to reach the crown first, his claw-like fingers grasping toward the throne, but Bayne shouldered him aside. The priest went flailing, his arms over his head as he toppled and slammed onto the dais with a shriek of breaking bones.
Then the crown was in Bayne’s hands, gripped tight and held high.
The warrior spun, the crown pulled tight to his chest and a grin of triumph upon his lips. He stood there, legs slightly apart, atop the rostrum while staring the length of the long room. The other hooded figures stood motionless, their arms at their sides as if helpless. The priest lay to one side of Bayne, the man’s body quivering and gurgling. Marnok was climbing to his feet at the bottom of the steps, the king already visibly smaller in Bayne’s eyes.
With the back of a mighty fist, Marnok wiped away a slick of blood from the side of his mouth. “You are a fool, Aris-Bayne.”
Bayne nodded to the crown in his grip. “You are the fool, Marnok, for tying up so much of your power within a physical object, an object that can be stolen, broken.”
The king’s eyes narrowed. “I see.”
“You see what?”
“I see you do not fully comprehend the situation.”
Marnok stretched forth a hand. Clasped tight within the fingers was the large golden key.
The key. Bayne had lost n
otice of it during the scuffle. Did it hold some significance? Valdra had not mentioned the key. Would she have known about it? If so, could she have known of any importance it might hold?
“Give me the crown,” Marnok said. “I will ask but once.”
Bayne did not move. He did not speak. The king was growing smaller by the second. By tiny increments his gigantic muscles were decreasing, his thick neck nearer to normal size, his legs and limbs approaching those of a more normal-sized man. Already Marnok had shrunk, was not as tall. What had Bayne to fear? The key. Marnok presented it as a weapon, but was this but a bluff?
“Enough.” Marnok’s single word was spat as his hand extended further.
The key flared bright with a flame-like glow.
The crown sprang from Bayne’s hands of its own accord, the metal tearing into skin and digging through flesh before leaving the doughty grip of the warrior. The object flashed across the space between Bayne and the king, then was resting in Marnok’s other hand.
The ruler grunted. “Such a shame.”
He turned to face his cowled followers, dismissing Bayne.
The rage. It had not time to build up within Bayne, but like an explosion it roared forth sudden from his lungs and throughout his limbs as he pounced from atop the throne’s platform, leaping through air with bleeding fingers flying for the king’s throat.
Marnok spun, lashing out.
The blow connected with Bayne’s chin, the key in Marnok’s fist digging deep and spraying claret, the warrior belted aside as if he were nothing but a child charging an ogre. One of the many columns to the side of the room rushed up to slam the swordsman, his back connecting with a resounding cracking noise. Then he was sliding down, falling, dropping to the floor in a heap.
“Prepare the punishment.” Marnok’s words came to Bayne as if from a cloudy distance, slurred and weak. But as the warrior swiftly healed, the magical properties of his unnatural body flowing forth through muscle and flesh and blood and organs, Bayne realized those words had not been distant. They had been quite close.
