by Ty Johnston
The torch thrust higher. An order was shouted. Spears were flung.
Bayne had little time to react. He had not expected such an immediate assault. Still, as the flying javelins filled the sky so as to block out the moon, he laughed at the oncoming offensive. This was what he lived for. His only regret was he had not had time to ask this Regius how they become aware of his own return to the vicinity.
No matter. Spears sailed.
And slammed into the ground. And flesh.
Bayne caught a blow across his left shoulder, little more than a scratch, but two other spearheads crashed into his chain-clad chest, the momentum behind the weapons sending links flying and tearing through the armor to bury deep within muscle. Blood splattered but Bayne still stood, now in a forest of spears surrounding him.
Another order was shouted.
Bayne had just enough time to glance to his left to find his horse now dead, the animal on its side after being impaled by half a dozen spears, when another deluge of spiraling darts filled the sky.
The rain of death came down in solid thumps, crashing into the ground and adding to the growing copse of shafts around the warrior. Bayne tried to move, to avoid any further violence upon himself, but the shafts buried in his chest slowed him to a standstill. The beams protruding from him caught on their cousins besieging the warrior, encircling him and keeping low his options of movement.
This time only one spear caught the big warrior, the falling blade of the weapon slashing across iron links on his back and skittering away to uselessness. The blow had done no damage, but it had knocked Bayne forward and off balance, the spears sticking from him adding to his awkwardness and forcing him to fall to his knees before he could act to halt his plunge.
More orders were shouted from the officer and the Trodans began to march forward.
Raising himself so he knelt on one knee, Bayne had to grin at the accomplishment of the men confronting him. In sizable numbers and with superb training and nerves they had managed to bend him to the ground as no other mortals had ever done without the aid of magic.
But it would still not be enough.
The soldiers drawing swords and beginning to work their way through the forest of spears of their own creating, Bayne gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand. Blood drained from between his lips as he reached up and wrapped mighty scarred fists around the hafts of the spears sticking from him. The pain would be awesome, he knew, but nothing he could not tolerate, nothing as compared to the tortures he had experienced under Marnok. To ease the pain as much as possible, Bayne gave a slight tug on the spears. The weapons did not budge. That was not a good sign.
The soldiers neared, knocking aside and hacking their way through the upright wooden shafts.
Bayne pulled. With all his might he pulled. The spears spurted from his chest with a shower of blood that drenched the front of the warrior. He dropped the weapons and swayed on his feet for a moment, the loss of blood momentarily stunning him and blurring his vision. Then his magical healing abilities roared into life, knitting torn organs and sealing broken flesh. Within a matter of seconds the big warrior was whole once more. He shook his head to clear his mind and stared straight ahead.
The Trodans were right on top of him, within arm's reach. A half dozen short swords were already raised to deliver hacking blows.
He had no time to draw his own mighty weapon.
No matter.
Bayne thrust out a hand, bypassing a sword slice to grab a soldier by the throat. A squeeze crushed the man's windpipe and dropped him roiling in the muddy grass. Blades flashed in, most glancing off the remains of Bayne's chain shirt, one chopping into the back of his squeezing hand to leave a red mark that was soon gone. Another sword nicked at the bottom of Bayne's chin, but that wound quickly disappeared as well.
Before the Trodans could act further, before they could swarm him in larger numbers or bring back their swords for further blows, Bayne was among them. He kicked and punched and battered like a wild beast, breaking bones and sending blood spraying. One soldier went down with his head twisted backward on his neck. Another doubled over with a crushed chest plate and broken ribs beneath that stabbed into his lungs. Yet another suffered his throat torn away, dying with a silent scream on his lips as he could no longer draw the air to scream.
To their credit, the score of men around Bayne did not flee. These were hardy stock, men who had witnessed combat and the death of companions before this night.
Bayne could appreciate that, but it did not mean he felt warmth in his breast for them. It did not mean he would spare any of them.
There was a brief respite, the dead piled around the large warrior momentarily blocking further advances of the troops, and Bayne took the opportunity to wipe his gore-covered hands on his leggings and to reach up and pull forward his own weapon, the long steel blade of a Trodan general.
“Slay him!” the new Tallerus yelled in the distance.
Bayne thought the proconsul a coward. At least his uncle had come forth for single combat. This Trodan general seemed to have no compunctions to do so. That could be a sign of intelligence, it occurred to Bayne, but he preferred to think of it as cowardice. But cowardice would not save this member of the Tallerus clan. Bayne swore that to himself. He would see the man die before the sun rose in the sky again.
With a roar, the warrior jumped forward, his heavy body cracking against and knocking aside the copse of spears before him. He lashed out with his sword in both hands, the blade cleaving through a man's neck and sending a head rolling.
Other Trodans waded in, their swords thirsty for the blood of the man slaying their kin. A half dozen jabbed their iron blades at the mad warrior, but two fell back with stumps for wrists and another was slit from his stomach to his neck. Their armor of hardened leather and chain did little good against the war god's strength, and their numbers seemed to give them no advantage as he was too swift and protected somewhat by the copious upraised spears around him. Still, they were brave men, and they did not allow the butchering of their comrades to still their nerves. More rushed in, kicking down the spears and charging at the bald, scarred man who was slaying them left and right.
Bayne chuckled as his large blade spun around him, severing limbs, cleaving skulls. Blood splashed, brains sprayed. Arms and legs and heads were separated from torsos. Men screamed the names of their loved ones, mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and wives and lovers and children. Then the men died beneath a flashing wave of deadly steel that seemed to know no bounds.
Within minutes there were several squads of dead soldiers heaped in a ring about the blood-covered warrior. Bayne stood motionless in the middle of the circle of dead, his chest rising and falling slowly, his sword gripped in two red hands. His knees were bent slightly, his posture ready for the next wave of attack.
But there were no more Trodans immediately before him. Bayne vaguely remembered a horn having sounded in the distance during his last carnage-filled melee, and now it seemed that noise had been a sign for withdrawal.
Tallerus and the rest of the Trodans had pulled back and regrouped in the center of their camp. A giant square of at least two hundred armored soldiers carrying tall shields and long spears now confronted Bayne.
The god tossed back his head and laughed to the night's sky. He had already bested dozens of these men, and he was no worse the wear for it. What could these foolish mortals hope to accomplish?
“We have scoured the land searching for you, Bayne kul Kanon!” shouted the proconsul from the middle of his troops. “We will not be denied your head!”
This returned questions to Bayne's mind. They had been looking for him. How had they known he had returned? Surely they had not been searching for him just because of the burnt town? Unless Tallerus and his men had happened to be in the area, and there had been no signs of that, the soldiers could not have gathered and marched to this region so swiftly. It seemed most likely that Tallerus had been informed at least a
few days earlier of Bayne's presence in the region.
Another horn sounded.
“Enough,” Bayne said to himself below his breath. His questions could wait. Now was the killing time. These men wanted war. With glee, he would give it to them.
Trodans marched forward once more, this time in a tight formation, their shields raised and their spears lowered, ready to skewer.
Bayne stood his ground, awaiting his numerous foes amidst a pile of their dead.
Each step forward of the soldiers shook the ground, sending miniature quakes up the solid legs of the warrior awaiting them. But still, Bayne did not move.
Then the marchers reached the edge of the ring of the death, the circle of their slain kin surrounding their lone opponent. Soldiers raised their well-muscled legs high, ready to walk upon the dead to reach their foe.
That was the moment Bayne struck. He launched himself atop the carcasses between them, then bound from that height above the heads of the Trodans. Shields were raised. Spears were raised. Iron bit into Bayne's flesh in multiple places, but his weight and momentum were too much. He crashed into the midst of the soldiers, crushing shields and men beneath them, breaking spear heads from their shafts and sending men reeling away.
The result was immediate disarray. Chaos was unleashed as Bayne rolled around atop shields and crumbling men. A dozen spears stabbed at him, breaking skin and tearing muscle, but the warrior allowed none to stop him. He rolled until he was up upon one knee, then he slashed and chopped and cut, flaying flesh from bone, crunching through armor, knocking shields from hands and helmets from heads.
The Trodans could not stop this immortal amongst them. His wounds healed nearly as fast as they could deal them out. His strength seemed to know no limits. His fury was unstoppable.
Another score of soldiers were vanquished by the time the horn sounded again and the Trodans began to pull back.
But this time Bayne would have none of that. He jumped to his feet and charged, his sword swinging left and right, up and down. He waded into the mass of soldiers, hollering shouts of joy as intestines spilled and hearts were torn from chests.
At this point, the Trodans feared they had nothing to lose. Weapons and shields were tossed aside and men launched themselves at their foe in an attempt to tackle him to the ground and hold him still.
A dozen of the armored, weighted men were upon Bayne before he dropped his sword and allowed himself to be taken down to the bloody, muddy ground. There had been no room to wield his preferred weapon, thus he discarded it and gave his foes what they wanted.
More men piled on, and then more and more. In less than a minute more than a score had added themselves to the mass of flesh and iron and bronze that was atop the war god.
To no avail.
Bayne was not pinned, though he gave the impression of being so. His enemies outnumbered him, thus he allowed them to enter his striking distance. He proved the tragedy of the most recent Trodan tactic by reaching out and grabbing a man by the face and squeezing with his steel-boned fingers; there was a scream and then the face imploded, eyes popping from the shattered skull along with red and yellow and gray gore. Another strong hand grabbed a man by the throat and pinched so hard there was no time for a scream. Cartilage and bone were crushed, and a head was separated from a body.
Then Bayne was flailing, grabbing and squeezing and kicking and punching and biting. Strips of flesh were torn away. Armor was ripped apart. Brains were strewn upon the bare flesh of other men. Blood rained and urine leaked.
Men died by the score. A whole score.
Bayne soon stood free once more, covered in gore, his sword once more in his hands. Around him was another pile of the dead, as large as the one before. Behind him lay signs of his power, dead men in heaps.
The rain came down once more, harder than ever, blurring the vision of all and cleaning the once-living grime from the body of the war god. Bayne closed his eyes and turned his head to the sky, allowing the heavens to wash him of the violence he had so recently committed.
The Trodan horns sounded again, this time with a frantic squeal.
Bayne knew not what this new sound would foretell, but he was not one to wait and find out. Despite his weakened sight in the heavy downpour, he cast himself forward, his mighty weapon leading the way.
His next contact with his foes came through a sheet of rain. A half dozen armored Trodans were already mired, the growing mud holding their sandals to the ground as if they walked through glue. Bayne severed. He sliced. He stabbed. And moments later a half dozen men lay dead at his feet.
He stared about for other foes but found none, the heavy rain blocking his vision.
The warrior glanced to the gloomy sky once more and now cursed the falling waters. The rain hindered his vision.
With those thoughts, the drenching ceased, bringing laughter to Bayne's lips and confusion to his mind. Had he caused the rain to subside? That was an idea he would have to ponder at some point. He glanced down at his form and saw much of the gore had been washed away. Could it be mere coincidence every time he was layered in blood and grime that a rain came along to clean him, body and limbs? Were his powers as a god growing, giving him command of the weather itself? It was a chilling thought, but also an admirable one.
Shouts flew up, bringing the warrior's attention back to the fray.
The torrent had killed the fires of his enemies, the Trodans now revealed beneath the glow of the moon and stars, once more attempting to form into a square in the center of their camp. The fools! Their spears and swords and shields and tactics had been nothing as to Bayne! Would they never learn?
Another lesson was in order.
His prestigious brawn allowing him to ignore much of the sucking mud, Bayne tromped forward once more. Allowing his sword to hang from one hand, he leaned down and grabbed up a spear, not halting for a moment.
The horn of battle sounded yet again.
The Trodans clanked weapons against shields and marched forward.
Only then did Bayne pause, staring over the heads of his foes as the light of the sun suddenly grew bright once more amid disappearing clouds of gray. Had they fought all night? Here and there the helmets of the Trodans glittered beneath that sun. The soldiers wore helms of beaten bronze and brass, but it was a silvered top the warrior sought.
There! Beneath a hanging flag of red with golden trim. It was a silver helm. It was the latest Tallerus to come against Bayne.
The warrior smiled, staring at the stern faces advancing cautiously toward his position.
Then he leaned back, bringing the spear behind his shoulder, and with a grunt flung the dart skyward.
The marching halted, all eyes going to the air and following the thrown bolt.
The spear seemed to hang for the longest of times, to float upon the wind, then it dove as a hawk for prey, shooting down from upon high.
The iron-tipped dart stabbed mercilessly into the midst of the soldiers. Combatants tried to dive from the falling doom, but they were packed too tightly to move. Some few shields were brought skyward, but too late. A squawk went up from the center of the pack.
Then a cry went out. "Healer! The proconsul is wounded!"
Bayne chuckled. Tallerus should give thanks to his own gods, thanks for being alive.
Taking advantage of his foes' temporary astonishment at the fate of their leader, the warrior raised his sword above his head and charged ahead.
It was as a storm blasting against the sides of a mighty ship. Raised shields buckled and men fell back upon their knees and their comrades. Jabbing spears were brushed aside with a swing of steel as Bayne crushed forward.
More screams reverberated through the air as the mind of the warrior who was a god blackened away all thought and vision. Bayne seemed to enter another world, one where there was nothing. Not even darkness. No time. No presence. No thought. Nothing.
He could not even feel himself breath.
Then a shudder and his senses
came to him once more.
Bayne stood atop a hill of dead, a mass of crushed and broken and bleeding bodies nearly as tall as a castle wall. It was raining once more, cleaning him of all evidence of his death dealing.
Even the large circle of tents had been rendered useless, the canvas skins now wet on the ground and floundering as if wounded seals laying in wait for death to finish them. The flag that had hung above the proconsul's position was now broken, tossed to one side near the bottom of the pile of dead.
Bayne shook his head, spraying water and blood from his bald, scarred dome. His mind cleared once more as he stared about.
He had slain all these men. Not a one moved. All showed signs of Bayne's viciousness. Yet he had scant memory of doing such, of slaying three hundred.
This had happened to him but once before, when facing the Trodans under the generalship of that earlier Tallerus, some thirty years in the past. How had this happened? And why? The only conclusion Bayne could come to was that this was another element of his godhood, a retraction of time to keep his mind from being occupied with other thoughts than of killing.
It had seemed to work. He had vanquished an army single-handedly. Twice now. Hundreds had died here this day, and untold thousands during that earlier debacle.
Did Bayne's body know no limits? Was he unbeatable in the sport of war?
The thought increased the width of the grin formed on the warrior god's face.
There was naught to do now but make his way down the mound of dead and continue on his way to find Pedrague.
The rain died.
Bayne smiled to the heavens, then proceeded to make his way down the hill of death.
As soon as his first boot touched grass, a sniveling, bawling noise was brought to his ears.
Bayne paused, then slowly spun about seeking what caused the disturbance.
After several seconds he found the root of the anguish, a broken figure huddled beneath several slaughtered Trodans, half of a broken spear distending from one of the man's shoulders.
Tallerus.
He yet lived.
Bayne slid his sword into its home over his shoulders and marched over to the fallen proconsul.
