The Sword Of Bayne Omnibus

by Ty Johnston

  All in all, it was a sight to take away a man’s breath. Here, in these dreary mountains, was a secret respite from the world beyond. Bayne could easily imagine himself settling here.

  But for the presence of men.

  How annoying.

  Perhaps he should simply kill all of them and claim the place as his own. But no, that would only lead to further troubles. Some knight or war general would eventually come along to wage a war of retribution. Bayne could slaughter even that group, but others would come. He could imagine a never-ending procession of soldiers marching upon this grove of peace, all intent upon his own destruction.

  No, taking this place for himself was out of the question. It was not an impossible task for the warrior, but it would lead to more annoyances.

  Further movement below caught Bayne’s eyes. It was the people there milling about. He had not paid attention moments earlier, but now he spotted a few wagons and carts, horses and bulls. The majority of those below were dressed in common garb, tunics and simple leggings and boots for the men, drab dresses for the women. There were others wearing dark brown robes, some with hoods pulled over their heads, and Bayne could only surmise these were the monks about whom he had been told. Of note, there were also a dozen or so men armed with spears and bows, their chests covered in hard leathers, though one man’s breast twinkled beneath the day’s rising sun as if he were protected by a plate of polished iron or steel.

  Bayne chuckled. So, the townsfolk had indeed arrived before him. Word of his terror would already be spreading. The monks and priests and whatever soldiery were present were already preparing for him.

  That was too bad. Bayne had liked the looks of this place. He would hate to have to destroy it.

  He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright morning sun as his gaze followed the path ahead. The road disappeared into a cluster of jagged, pointed peaks, hiding the actual entrance into the priestly stronghold. From his vantage he could not see what would greet him upon nearing the bottom of the road.

  Bayne shrugged. If they were to greet him with hostility or folly, let his response be on their heads.

  He was ready to continue marching when a cry went up from the castle. Then another. And another. Then shouts of military orders and stompings of booted feet and screams of fear. They had spotted him upon the hill’s path.

  Bayne grinned. He must look a fright. His scarred features, the dried blood still caking his muscular, chain-clad form, the gigantic sword on his back. He had to admit he made a vision that would frighten children and adults alike.

  His grin broadened. And he placed one foot in front of the other and walked forward, leading his horse.

  The road dipped down, causing Bayne to lose sight of the temple compound behind a rising escarpment, then curved around to the left.

  A half hour of walking brought level ground and a new site. The gravel lane the warrior had followed became a proper road, with coffee-colored bricks packed tightly together beneath his boots and his horse’s hooves. Men had been at work here, likely the monks.

  Then the road bent sharply to the right and another site presented itself. The road widened as the high cliffs of the mountains and hills fell away abruptly, the temple grounds and the green fields of the Ashalites beyond. Across the road had been thrown together a hasty barricade, little more than sharpened pickets. Behind the fencing stood a line of a dozen men, some the soldiers he had witnessed from above.

  These men wore grim expressions and stood their ground with bravery and steel. A pair were likely holdovers from the town, these two gripping spears and dressed in soft leather. Most of the others wore breastplates of hardened oxhide, they too hefting spears though some few carried short swords at their belts. In the middle of the group, one figure stood out; this fellow’s chest was covered with a plate of iron that had been burnished to a shine. In one of his hands was a lengthy sword, in his other a small wooden shield.

  Bayne continued on for some little way, then halted himself and his steed within talking distance of the line of defenders.

  The man in the iron breastplate, obviously a leader or officer, lifted his shield hand flat as a symbol the stranger should proceed no further. “You are not welcome here, Bayne kul Kanon.”

  Bayne raised an eyebrow. They had heard of his name. How could that be? None in the town had known his name. The only answer was Lerebus. The northerner must have come this way, perhaps even being the first to arrive from the town. Had Bayne’s former companion raised the alarm? Could Lerebus have joined the ranks of these priests’ guards, perhaps even now standing among their ranks at the castle beyond?

  If it were true, so be it. Lerebus had not been an annoyance, but Bayne had no particular love for the man.

  “You are not welcome here,” the leader of the defenders repeated. Then, “Return the way you came.”

  Bayne’s eyebrow rose even further. Though these men might know his name, obviously they had no idea with whom they were speaking.

  “Who is chief priest here?” he asked, ignoring the command to leave.

  For a moment it appeared the other fellow might not answer. He spluttered, then said, “Bishop Altinus is acting priest here.”

  “Acting?”

  “Yes,” the officer said with a curt nod.

  “Then there is another above this Altinus,” Bayne said.

  “The arch bishop is currently on a pilgrimage.”

  Bayne shrugged. “Very well. Altinus will do. Take me to him.”

  “I will do no such thing!” The officer shook his weapon at the warrior. “You will go back the way you came! Do so now or there will be --”

  The drawing forth of the giant sword silenced the captain. The officer cried out in surprise but stood his ground, shouting orders. Spears were raised to shoulders.

  Bayne allowed his horse’s lead to fall to the dust of the ground. “Enough of this.” He marched forward, his chain shirt jingling, his sword lifted in both hands above his head.

  “Throw!” the officer bellowed.

  Nearly a dozen spears darted forward. Some flew straight for their target. Others curved through the air, sailing down from a higher angle. A couple skidded into one another, snapping aside to fall useless.

  A burst of swinging steel burst apart the javelins, separating the iron heads from their wooden shafts. Splinters rained upon Bayne and nothing more as the spears dwindled to the ground at his feet.

  Eyes of astonishment and fear faced the bald, scarred swordsman.

  “Fall back!” The order was shouted as the officer spun on his heels, waving his men behind him.

  The retreat was a mess, some men turning their backs on their foe and running for their lives, others withdrawing orderly and gradually, keeping weapons ready and an eye on their opponent. They were trained and untrained men alike, Bayne surmised, some soldiers or possibly mercenaries but the others little more than militia.

  The large swordsman slid his weapon into its scabbard on his back while he watched the defenders flee back along the brick road and through an opening in the short brick wall there, the men running toward the castle and a ragtag bunch of townsfolk, monks and other fighters gathered there. Only when the defenders reached the safety of the castle ground’s outer walls did Bayne turn to retrieve his horse. But the animal was gone. He could spy its bouncing rear as the beast trotted up the hill the way he had come from the town.

  Bayne chuckled. Apparently his mighty steed had seen enough, what with a dozen spears coming its direction and his own whirling defenses. Good luck to you, the warrior mentally told the fleeing beast. He had little use for the horse other than it provided him a higher elevation from which to see and it had been a good pack animal. Bayne could go long between meals and he tired rarely, so the horse was not a necessity.

  He turned back to the makeshift wall that blocked his path to the castle.

  Trodding forward, a few chops of his hands and a couple of shoves sent the picket tumbling to one side.
Bayne walked through the opening, his eyes locked on the not-so-distant castle walls.

  Ahead there lay chaos. The non-combatants, a couple of dozen women and children and older folk, were rushing through an open wooden door in the side of the castle proper. A few wagons and pack animals had been left to fend for themselves, though a score of armed defenders was now forming into another line just the side of the short wall surrounding the grounds proper.

  Bayne watched all as he marched forward.

  When the warrior was within spear-throwing distance, the officer stepped forward once more and raised his sword.

  Bayne halted.

  A few gawkers peered around the edges of the door to the castle, their fearful eyes watching with little hope the scene unfolding before them.

  Bayne sighed and raised his own hand, almost as a greeting, to the officer of the soldiers.

  The officer hesitated, as if unsure as to what to do.

  “Keep this simple,” Bayne suggested. “Take me Altinus,or I will slay all of you, including those sheltered within the castle. You have heard of my wrath. Do not be fools and bring me to raise it here.”

  The answer came with gritted teeth and a rattling sword. “Never! Death first!”

  “As you wish.” Bayne reached for his weapons’s hilt.

  “Stop!” The voice was from a bald man in brown robes. He stood in the open doorway.

  “Would you be Altinus?” Bayne asked the newcomer.

  The robed figure walked forward, stopping behind the young officer and the line of fighters. “I am not Bishop Altinus, but to save lives here this day, I will take you to him.”

  “Good,” Bayne said.

  “Have you lost your mind, Rothn?” the officer said to the robed man. “He will slay the bishop, then likely the rest of us.”

  Rothn placed a gentle hand on one of the officer’s shoulders. “No, he will not. He wishes to speak with our senior priest, and as allowing him to do so would seem to prevent bloodshed, I see no reason not to acquiesce.” He smiled at the officer. “We must believe the best in all men, captain. It would be the will of Ashal.”

  The officer’s eyes told of disbelief, but he lowered his sword and motioned for his men to move away from the wall and to open a path to the castle.

  Bayne grinned and strode forward through the opening in the wall and between the gathering of warriors. He winked at the young captain. “You should thank your friend. He just saved your life.”

  The officer started, but Rothn patted his shoulder, restraining the fellow with soothing words.

  Bayne marched on to the castle, Rothn following behind. The warrior’s grin broadened upon nearing the dark opening; the curious onlookers he had spotted earlier were nowhere to be found. The doorway stood empty.

  “Walk straight along the hall,” Rothn advised. “The bishop is through the doors at the end.”

  Bayne entered. He found himself in a narrow, lengthy hall with walls of dark gray stones laid between layers of a lighter mortar. The floor was wide planks of a reddish wood. Every few feet there were wooden doors opposite one another. At the far end could be spied a wooden door studded with iron. It was a servants’ entrance, or some other side passage for comings and goings.

  Rothn pointed past the warrior. “Straight ahead.”

  Bayne glared at the smaller man, then pounded his way along the hall. He half expected a surprise attack, but no one else was to be seen and the only sounds were the thuds of his own boots and the swash of Rothn’s shoes on the floor from behind. The townsfolk and any castle inhabitants must have fled or were in hiding, which was no surprise to Bayne.

  As the two neared the far door, a new sound came to them. Yelling. Two men were shouting at one another in the room beyond.

  At first Bayne could not make out what was being said, but then he could make out louder individual words. He heard “creation” and “Ashal” and “horror” shouted.

  Stopping before the door, the warrior turned toward Rothn to find the man was pale. The robed figure seemed more concerned with what was going on behind the door than with the murderous devil standing next to him.

  “What goes on here?” Bayne asked, jabbing a thumb toward the door.

  Rothn was visibly shaken, his bottom lip quivering. “The bishop is in a meeting.”

  Bayne snickered and placed a hand against the door. “I hope you were not expecting me to wait.”

  “No,” Rothn said, his eyes lowering to stare at the ground. “I only hope I have done the right thing, have saved lives here today.”

  “You are doing good so far,” Bayne said with a smile. Then the big man shoved at the door.

  Wood cracked as the muscled arm forced its way through. The room beyond suddenly went silent as Bayne kneed the door and pushed and shoved and tore through the aperture, leaving the door in splinters.

  “It wasn’t locked,” a new voice spoke.

  Bayne found himself confronting two older men in a large library with walls of dark-stained wood that rose twice the height of Bayne himself, and the walls were lined with shelves of scrolls and the occasional codex. The warrior had torn his way into a back entrance of the room, and he faced a lectern where stood one of the robed men and a sizable desk behind which sat the other fellow. To Bayne's left at the far end of the chamber was a pair of closed doors, obviously the main entrance.

  The man who had spoken, the oldest, now scowled at the barbaric figure before him. “May I help you?”

  “Are you Altinus?” Bayne asked.

  “I am indeed.” The bishop looked over the warrior’s shoulder to the shrinking figure behind the muscled figure. “Rothn, what is the meaning of this? Who is this man?”

  Bayne shoved Rothn out of the now cluttered doorway. “Stay away if you know what’s good for you.” Then he spun back upon the bishop and the seated man. “I am here for Pedrague.”

  “Pedrague?” Altinus asked.

  “Yes,” Bayne said. “I am told you are acting chief here while he is gone. Tell me where he is.”

  The bishop’s eyes narrowed. Despite the brutality of the warrior’s entrance and the horrific visage of Bayne with his scars and giant weapon, Altinus showed more annoyance than anger or fear. “Who are you? What business is it of yours the location of Arch Bishop Pedrague?”

  Before Bayne could answer with words or violence, the other man in the room stood, his dark amaranthine robes unfolding behind him. “Bishop Altinus, this would seem to be the man spoken of by the recently arrived villagers.”

  Altinus glanced to the speaker then back to the swordsman. His gaze had become less harsh, but it still did not quake before the potential violence in Bayne. “So, you are the slayer of men, the destroyer of nearly a whole town?” The words were nearly spat.

  Bayne nodded, grinning.

  “I suppose you are here to slay everyone in the castle?” Altinus asked.

  The other robed man spoke. “Your holiness, perhaps --”

  “Hush, Taurut,” the bishop said. “Let this man speak for himself.”

  Bayne’s smile widened. “I warned those outside I would slay them to a man unless shown to you.”

  “Thus here you are,” Altinus said, “interrupting an important meeting so that you may discover the whereabouts of Arch Bishop Pedrague.”

  “That is the case,” Bayne said.

  “Arch Bishop Pedrague is away on a pilgrimage,” Altinus said. “He will not be back for some days.”

  “Where has he gone for this pilgrimage?” Bayne asked.

  Altinus hesitated as if the words were on the tip of his tongue, as if he did not know whether he should speak the truth or not.

  “Do I need to make more threats?” Bayne said. “And remember that I am more than willing to go through with them.”

  “He has gone to the mountain.” The words rushed from Taurut’s mouth. “He goes there once every year.”

  “The mountain?” Bayne said, pointing back the way he had come.

  Al
tinus glared at Taurut, then turned his attention back on the warrior. “The largest of the mountains. It is to the west of here some days’ ride. You must have passed it when you … when you attacked the town.”

  “He climbs this mountain?” Bayne asked.

  “There is a cave there he visits,” the bishop explained. “Why he does so, I do not know.”

  Bayne looked to Taurut. “You say he goes there once every year.”

  Taurut nodded. “Yes. He’s visited there for as long as I’ve known him, for nearly twenty years. He used to take other brothers with him, but he would not allow them inside the cave. We would camp outside and wait for him. Sometimes he would be gone a day, sometimes two or three. The last few years he has gone alone.”

  The swordsman’s gaze drifted to the ground as if he were staring into a foggy past.

  “Now you know,” Altinus said, his words clipped. “You may leave whenever you like.”

  “I know I may leave!” Bayne’s words were nearly shouted as he glowered upon the bishop. “No man will tell me when and where to go. No man will control me! Not any longer! I will not be played the fool of kings nor gods nor the likes of you!”

  The warrior’s chest heaved from his anger, yet he made no move toward his weapons. Altinus stared back with hate. Taurut stood silently with his gaze averted.

  Eventually the storm calmed.

  “Altinus, you are a fool, and I have sworn to myself not to tolerate fools,” Bayne said. “But before I decide whether to slay you, my curiosity has been aroused.”

  “On what course?” Altinus spat back.

  “Lerebus,” Bayne said.

  The bishop appeared confused, his brows arching and his eyes going blank.

  “The first warrior to arrive from the village,” Taurut explained to Altinus. “He was the one who warned us of … of this fellow.”

  “This fellow is named Bayne kul Kanon,” the swordsman pointed out.