by Ty Johnston
Some of this detritus Bayne remembered upon leaving the town, but some he did not recognize. Most likely there had been others who had fled even after Bayne himself had left, but it was not impossible some townsfolk had tried to return upon realizing he was gone.
Bayne kneed his horse and rode ahead. He decided he would spare anyone who came across his path as long as they did not attempt to stall his travels. It was not that he engendered any tender feelings toward the mortals, but he now knew Pedrague's location and wished to find the priest and be done with their final meeting. Then what would come would come.
To that end, he rode forward, keeping his eyes sharp for anyone foolish enough to threaten him.
He had just passed the casual border of the town, two houses across the road from one another, when he came across a half dozen or so bodies lined up on the ground in front of a narrow alley between two burnt-out buildings. The dead were without cover, their garb having been burnt away, and their flesh was black and showed signs of having bubbled and baked.
The sight did not worry Bayne, but he found it curious the bodies were in a line. Someone had been at work, probably seeking survivors.
“You there!”
Bayne's head snapped up as he reined his steed to a rest.
Ahead of him a spear's-throw away stood a young man in a red kilt and bronzed chest plate. Atop the fellow's head was a large golden helmet spouting a red-dyed horse's mane. He wore a wide leather belt around his waist which sported a short sword and a sizable dagger.
A Trodan, Bayne thought. A Trodan officer of a lower rank.
“Do not move!” the Trodan shouted.
“I do as I please,” Bayne snapped back.
Never taking his eyes from the saddled warrior, the officer brought two fingers to his lips and gave forth a shrill whistle.
The effect was a sudden tromping of heavy sandaled feet at some short distance. Around a corner of a remaining stone building appeared a dozen soldiers garbed in similar fashion to the officer. Each of these men wore a more simple helmet atop their heads, the metal still bronze but little more than a simple bowl with a lip hammered about the edges. In the soldiers' right hands were lengthy spears, and on their left arms were tall, rectangular shields painted red to match the clothing beneath their yellowed armor.
The orderly dozen marched forward at a steady pace, with confidence and intent.
“Trodans! On me!” the officer shouted.
The soldiers broke from their strict squared formation and trotted forward, forming a half circle behind their leader.
The officer smiled as if pleased with his superiority in numbers and pointed to Bayne. “What is your purpose here?”
“I do not answer to any man,” the warrior on horseback stated.
The Trodan official's eyes narrowed. “I have questions for you. Climb down from your horse.”
Bayne chuckled, then with a flash his giant sword was hefted in his right hand. “In order to save myself the time of slaying you, I will give you one opportunity to move out of my way. It was I who destroyed this town, and it will be I who will slay all of you if you continue to block my path.”
The officer snorted while his men remained stoic, their steadfast gazes launching forth over the crest of their heavy wooden shields.
"I will take that as your response," Bayne said, lifting a well-muscled leg over his saddle and dropping onto the ground on the other side.
The Trodan leader held up a fist above his right shoulder, then his fingers sprang apart as if he were clawing at the air. His men darted forward, the armor and shields doing little to slow down these seasoned soldiers.
Bayne swatted his riding beast on its rump, sending the animal trotting away.
Then the soldiers were upon him. They came from all sides, stabbing with their spears. Bayne swatted aside two of the poled weapons with the flat of a hand, his sword cracking the head from another spear and brushing back yet another lance. Two of the narrow-bladed javelins found a hit, one sinking into Bayne's left thigh before being withdrawn, the other slashing near his eyes and leaving a red line across the bridge of his nose.
Any other warrior would have withdrawn, perhaps even gone down, but not Bayne. He gripped his sword in both hands and whirled the weapon about, washing away the wall of spear points as if they were mere thorns. He stood still, holding his ground, blood seeping from his wounds only briefly before the cuts healed themselves.
In the background, the Trodan officer screamed orders at his men, though none seemed necessary. These were soldiers who worked together well. Seeing their stabs and jabs were of little use, they formed into a line some ten feet in front of their foe, their spears raised to point at the heavens, their shields side by side as if locked together so there was no opening to breach. Only the soldiers' sandals and the tops of their gleaming helmets were revealed behind their makeshift wall of defense.
Bayne watched the swift workings of the Trodans with some interest. He could appreciate their training and experience. But that did not mean he would allow them to live.
As was his wont, he charged.
The Trodans braced themselves, leaning into the coming blow, but even such men as they were not prepared for the onslaught that was Bayne. The wild warrior placed his left shoulder forward and smashed into a central shield as if a steel mallet hammering soft wood. The shield cracked and large splinters flew as the soldier behind was lifted into the air and tossed back toward his commander.
Finding himself in the middle of the line, Bayne let his heavy steel blade come to life. The sword swung out, chopping cleanly through one man's knee and leaving him screaming and hopping.
The Trodans did not flee nor blanch. They pressed in, now a circle around their opponent. The tall shields pushed inward, crushing against the madness of their savage foe.
All to no avail.
Bayne roared and shoved against a shield, sending its holder rolling back along with two other Trodans caught up with their companion's defenses. Then the warrior kicked out with a broad boot, cracking against another shield and splitting it with his might blow. All the while, his sword worked overhead, slashing across a pair of eyes and reaching into a brain to take a man's life.
Only then did the Trodans attempt to withdrawal. Several backed away with shields raised protectively. Others tried to grab their wounded or dead companions to bring them to safety.
Bayne was having none of it. He had given them an opportunity to leave him alone. They had not taken his offer. Now none of them would live.
He waded into them as would a starving bear into a lame doe. His teeth gnashed, his eyes flared. The giant sword dipped and dived and flashed forward, cleaving shields and helmets and skulls beneath. Within seconds a half dozen Trodans lay dead in a circle about the warrior's booted feet, and Bayne stopped only to wipe the freshly splattered blood of his enemies from his eyes.
That pause gave the remaining soldiers and the officer a moment of hope. With a shout of "Retreat!" the Trodan commander and the remainder of his infantry turned and fled.
Or attempted to.
His eyesight clear once more, Bayne sprang. He leaped across the blood-soaked ground and brought his sword down from upon high in a mighty two-handed chop that hacked through a fellow's back, splitting the man's spine from his neck to his buttocks.
Panic ensued. Though perhaps the best and toughest and most experienced the Trodan army had to offer, these were not men familiar with battling against a god. Some tossed aside their heavy shields to lighten their loads. Others even threw down their spears. But all fled.
None were faster than the crazed, blood-covered god. Bayne ran after them like a wolf taking down an elk, hamstringing men to halt them, then butchering them where they lay. To the Trodans' esteem, few of them cried out before meeting their deaths.
In the end, only the young officer remained. He found himself trapped in a cul de sac between two burnt-out buildings, his back against a stone wall blackened by fir
e but still standing strong.
Bayne stood heaving at the entrance to the dead-end box. He looked like the madman he was, gore dripping from his limbs and the long sword extended out to one side of his breast.
The Trodan commander glanced at the tall wall behind him and the side of the mountain above, then turned to face his approaching doom. His hands shivered as he drew forth his sword, took a single step forward and planted himself. At least he would face his death like a man.
The rain returned, coming in heavy for a brief time before slowing to a gentleness. Both men stood there staring at one another across the short gulf between them. The water slowly washed away the stains of combat that had layered onto Bayne, and soon both men were dripping wet.
Still, the god of war did not move, his hard gaze locked onto that of the other man.
The Trodan remained quiet for as long as he could, then his resolve broke. "Finish it! Send me to my ancestors!"
Bayne stared back in silence for a moment, then he gave one final heave and lowered his weapon. "No."
The Trodan flinched.
Bayne wiped his blade clean on his leggings, then slid the sword into the sheath on his back. "I will spare you," he said. "You will be my witness. You will take my message of death to the rest of the Trodans."
The officer's shoulders relaxed. He was to live. But he did not lower his own sword.
"Tell your leaders Bayne kul Kanon has returned to this land," Bayne went on, "and tell them I would be left to my own devices. Any interference will bring death."
The Trodan said nothing, his unblinking eyes never leaving those of the warrior.
"Do you understand?" Bayne asked.
The Trodan nodded.
"Good," Bayne said. "Now ... depart."
With that the large warrior spun about and marched away from the lone survivor of his recent wrath. Bayne paid no more attention to the Trodan. He had a horse to find. But he did hear the patterings of sandaled feet as the officer fled in the opposite direction.
Soon enough Bayne was able to find his animal. Apparently this beast was of better training or stock than had been the horse he had taken earlier from the town. This one had not fled at the first sign of combat.
Climbing into the saddle once more, Bayne was glad to note the rain was already dissipating. He had no wish to take the time to find a proper cloak to shield his flesh from the cold and wet. Prodding his beast, he rode forward again, tramping through the silent remains of the dead and the dead town.
Around the riding warrior grew up more blackened beams, remains of the houses and other structures destroyed in his wake. Here and there a building had been fortunate, suffering only minor damage or having been free completely of the flames that had devastated the town. Of the townsfolk, there was no sign. The lack of people did not surprise Bayne. He was sure some of them would come wandering back eventually to scavenge what they could or to rebuild, and perhaps some few had already been here or were in hiding, but it was too soon. Less than a day had passed since his wrath had been unveiled here.
He wondered at the line of bodies he had witnessed upon entering the town not so long ago, and surmised the Trodan soldiers must have pulled the corpses from the gutted buildings and had readied them to be carted away for burning or burial or whatever passed for final rites in this land. It did surprise Bayne somewhat to have found the soldiers there in the first place. The day was growing late, the dipping sun on the horizon revealing an hour or less of light remaining, but it had not been so long since Bayne had slaughtered and burned in this town. How had the soldiers arrived so swiftly? Perhaps they were stationed at a near encampment. Perhaps they had merely been traveling through the region and had stumbled upon the destruction. These were Trodan lands, after all, but it was odd the soldiers had appeared so soon when the town itself had shown no signs of stationed troops. The town had barely been able to muster any defense.
The sun suddenly died above the warrior, hidden behind the rising walls of the narrow passage that enfolded the town. Darkness did not rule yet, but the shadows were steeped within the cracks and lines of the surrounding crags.
No matter. Bayne rode on.
Eventually he came to the inn where his ire had first arisen in the town. He was surprised to find it mostly whole, only the northern wing of the upper floor having burnt through and fallen in upon the lower floor. Bayne chuckled, accusing himself of not having done a proper job.
Time passed slowly for the wandering warrior as he proceeded through the region, but soon enough he saw the gates he and Lerebus had passed through the night before. The double gate stood open and the dirt ground showed signs of an abrupt withdrawal of the townsfolk. Here as elsewhere along the road, discarded personal items could be found, obvious signs of retreat in haste.
Wasting no more time to take in his surroundings, Bayne pushed his riding beast forward just as the sun died in full for the day.
Just outside the gate, the view beyond caused the warrior to rein in his steed. Here was the familiar open field stretching to the edges of his sight, the early moon and stars revealed above a black horizon line far in the distance. But those were familiar sights, ones Bayne had witnessed before. What had brought him pause was the bright glow given off by a huge ring of individual fires some few hundred yards ahead of him across the field.
It was a camp site. Dozens of tents had been thrust up in the field, looking as natural as if they had grown there. Among the tents were soldiers, Trodans, several hundred of them. Some milled about. Others were rushing one place or another. Some few stood in pairs on the outside of the camp's ring, these on guard duty. A dozen or so horses were tied together beneath the shelter of a large awning, various colored flags revealing a tent nearby was the temporary home to whatever officer or officers were in charge of this pack.
This explained why the dozen men he had slain in the village were so near. They had been part of this encampment. But why were these soldiers here, in this place?
There was no way to find out except to ride down and ask.
Bayne jabbed his knees into his horse's sides and was carried forward down the slight incline into the grassy field. He had gone no more than fifty yards when a shout went up from the edge of the camp nearest him. Moments later there was a flurry of activity at that side of the circle of tents. Bayne's view of the movement was limited due to the dark of night and the lack of torches or other fires outside the camp proper, but as best he could tell several dozen soldiers were arranging themselves into a square formation just outside the tents. The remainder of the men in the camp also appeared to change their activity, many rushing for what appeared to be spears stacked together.
Nearing the encampment, Bayne dropped from his saddle onto the right of his horse, his left hand entwining the animal's lead around his wrist, his right hand remaining free. His paced slowed, but he continued to take himself and his horse forward.
All the motion in the camp came to a standstill. Now nearer, Bayne could make out there were indeed fifty or so of the Trodans formed into a square block between him and the tents and fires. Beyond the platoon before him, the rest of the infantry members had formed into small groups, each squad near and with their backs to the individual fires.
A spark momentarily lit the scene near the front line of the block of troops, showing hard faces beneath the visors of golden helmets, then a flame danced upon the light breeze. A figure stepped forward holding a torch high. Bayne could make out little of the man's features beneath a silvered helm that covered his face but for chin and lips. On the officer's chest was a steel plate showing engravings of a battle scene. From his back hung a huge sword nearly the size of Bayne's own weapon.
“Identify yourself!” a sturdy voice shouted from beneath the torch.
Bayne halted his animal and allowed the reins to fall from his hand. “I am Bayne kul Kanon!” he shouted back.
There was a brief, bitter bark of dark laughter. Then, “Good! We have been looking for yo
u, Bayne kul Kanon! Your doom is at hand!”
“Then you know of who I am?” the warrior god asked.
Another chuckle. “We know of you, Bayne! All the Trodan army knows of you! How could we forget the massacre of Proconsul Lucius Sulla Tallerus and his troops?”
The words took Bayne back years. For him, the name Tallerus raised an image of a stoic, hardened face within his mind's eye. Tallerus had been the general of Trodan soldiers he had slaughtered in the name of Verkanus. It was the corpse of Tallerus which had supplied the very sword he now carried upon his back. To Bayne, that battle had taken place little more than a decade earlier. But he recognized his stay in another world had made his keeping of time awkward at best. His understanding was twenty years had passed since he had first entered the cave on the side of the mountain and his awakening in the field outside the village that was not a village. For these Trodans before him now, thirty years had gone by since his attack upon them.
“You hold onto an old grudge,” warned Bayne.
“It is a family affair,” the officer said.
“How is that?” asked Bayne. “Are you kin to Tallerus?”
“He was my uncle!” the Trodan shouted. “But I have studied with those who survived that day. I have read the great works of history about that battle. And the outcome here will differ! Prepare to meet your death, Bayne kul Kanon, for Proconsul Regius Sulla Tallerus swears you will die this day!”
