The Sword Of Bayne Omnibus Read online

  “You have not heard my questions.”

  “The exactness matters little,” Verkanus said. “I can guess at the general gist of your inquiries.”

  Bayne glanced to the other two who continued to sit in silence, their eyes shifting from one speaker to the other. Could the warrior hope to find his answers from them? Not likely. Even if they could provide answers, so far they had not seemed forthcoming.

  The big man pointed at the standing mage once more. “You created me.”

  “That is not a question,” Verkanus pointed out.

  “So it is true, then?” Bayne said. “You created me.”

  Verkanus sighed. “Do you remember that night we first met?”

  Bayne nodded once more. “Of course.”

  “Everything I know of you comes from that night,” Verkanus said. “Your own memories hold the key to anything I could tell you.”

  “You cast a spell, a ritual,” Bayne said. “You brought me forth.”

  “Indeed, I did,” Verkanus said, “but that does not mean I know more of you.”

  “Impossible.” The single word was harsh off Bayne’s tongue. “You are a wizard. It was your spell which brought me to the battlefield. You must know from where I came, what I am.”

  The emperor mage chortled. “You give me too much credit, Bayne. As I said, any answers lie within your own memory. Do you not remember that night of battle and blood? Do you not remember all that happened?”

  Of course Bayne remembered. His first conscious thoughts were from that night. He closed his eyes and pondered the past, venturing back across almost a dozen years to that single night, the night he was born unto this world.

  There was nothing.

  Then there was existence.

  It was not an awakening, not like a living man roused from sleep. There simply was.

  Then there was flame and bright colors, yellows and reds impaling his eyes.

  But there was no pain.

  His flesh was seared, blackened in places, bubbling along the thighs and bright red on the arms. He did not feel it. Or, at least, he could control it. There was a sensation, as if a signal in his skin was telling his mind of warning, but it did not hinder his actions.

  He pushed off the ground, standing in a ring of fire.

  Staring about himself, he found the flames encircling him and licking at his bare feet. He was standing in the bottom of a giant crater, itself a sea of chalky grit, the fire revealing what little he could see of his surroundings. Pieces of silvered metal littered the ground around him, some of them glowing white from the heat. Beyond was darkness.

  Night, he thought. But he was not sure how he knew this darkness equaled the night, the time when the planet was not facing a sun.

  He stared down at his strong, muscular body revealed beneath the glow of the moon. He knew he was man, but could not quite grasp all that meant.

  A soft, repeating thumping noise sounded in the distance.

  He turned toward it, not knowing what to expect.

  A tall man with long, black locks appeared from the darkness. Dried blood gripped a sleeve of his gray robes and straggled down to the beast he rode, a horse of bones with no skin.

  “Bayne kul Kanon,” the newcomer said.

  “Is that what I am called?”

  The skeleton horse shifted beneath its rider, stirring as if a remnant of its former life was disturbed by the scent of blood and burning upon the air. “A war demon was summoned,” said the rider, “and you are what has come.”

  “Bayne kul Kanon,” the big man said. These words were unfamiliar, but the concept of a demon he understood. Some stirring at the back of his mind informed him of such. He held out his burnt, muscular arms, staring at them as if they were something new to him, which perhaps they were. “Am I demon?”

  “You are what has come,” the rider repeated.

  “From where?” Bayne asked.

  “Demons rise from the pits of Hell,” the rider said, “but you came from above. A star burning across the heavens heralded your arrival, descending unto this very spot where we now stand, destroying all that was beneath it … men, horses, … all.”

  “Then I am not demon,” Bayne said. “Why was not a demon called by your magic?”

  The rider held up his bleeding arm, his cloak falling back to reveal a long line of crusted scarlet along the limb. “I was in battle casting my spell when an arrow glanced against me. A stray bolt, an inept assassin, I do not know. But the arrow discombobulated the ritual.”

  “And you? Who are you?”

  The dark-clad figure sat higher in his saddle, as if to bring weight to his words. “I am Lord Verkanus, King of Pursia, King of Ursia, Emperor Mage. It was I who summoned you forth from the nether. It was I who brought you here to do my bidding.”

  Bayne smirked at the words. Was he here to do any man’s bidding? He thought not. It struck him as foolish that one of his strength would bend a knee to another, even this wizard who rode a dead horse. Bayne was born knowing no fear, and it would remain thus.

  The rider, Verkanus, twisted in his seat, waving a bleeding hand toward the edge of the crater, nearly a quarter mile in the distance. For the first time, Bayne noticed there was a glow about the edges of the crater. A ring of fire burned there, all along the ledge. What lay beyond, he could not fathom, but his hearing picked out clashings of metal on metal and screams and shouts in the distance. The stench of blood, burning flesh and the soil of men rolled into his nostrils, causing within him to stir an emotion unfamiliar as of yet.

  Glory. Hubris. An appetite for death and destruction.

  The sensation shocked the big man. Was he a killer? It seemed natural to him that he would be, with his mighty thews and weighty legs.

  “We are surrounded by clashing soldiers,” Verkanus explained, sliding out of his saddle. “We stand in what was the center of a conflict until some little time ago.”

  Bayne’s gaze stayed upon the horizon, catching occasional glimpses of the shadowy outlines of men and horses, swords and spears raised high, splashing blood and tumbling heads and limbs.

  “Why is this fight?” the big man asked.

  The emperor nodded in the direction from which he had come. “To the north is my army of blue and black.” He waved a hand in the opposite direction. “From the south come the Trodans in red and gold. They wish to end my rule.”

  “Why?”

  Verkanus lowered his head and gritted his teeth. “Because they are jealous. They believe themselves my superior.”

  Bayne nodded. “Man is only superior by feat of arms.”

  The emperor grinned. “My very thinking when my cohorts and I rode forward to do battle. This is why I called you forth, Bayne kul Kanon. You are my champion. Today we will decide superiority.”

  “You would have me kill in your name?” Bayne asked.

  “I would,” Verkanus said.

  “To what end?”

  “I brought you here,” Verkanus said. “I gave you all. Demon or not, you appear well suited to the arts of war. Fight for me and we will crush the Trodans, securing my kingdom once and for all, and securing your freedom.”

  “ My freedom?”

  Verkanus nodded. “If the Trodans take the day, it is most assured they will chain you and break you.”

  Bayne scoffed. “Not likely.”

  The emperor turned toward his steed and opened leather saddle bags on the beast’s rump. He rummaged within, then pulled forth a wooden, iron-rimmed shield and a short sword that glinted in the dying glows of the flames dancing about Bayne’s feet. He tossed the weapon and shield to the feet of the man before him. Then Verkanus withdrew simple clothing, leather boots, belts, pants and a padded shirt. These he placed on the ground. Finally, he held out a shirt of chain to his champion.

  “Take these,” the emperor said, “and stride forth to assure yourself of freedom.”

  Bayne glanced at the offerings, then looked down at his own form, noticing his nudity for th
e first time. He did not feel shame at his lack of covering, but there was a sense of the incomparable and the vulnerable. He reached out and took the mail shirt and quickly pulled on the rest of the clothing. Last, he strapped the shield to his left arm and hefted the silvered sword in his other hand.

  “Steel,” Verkanus said of the weapon. “Rare in these times, but not impossible for one with the proper resources.”

  “What weapons do my enemies use?” Bayne asked.

  “Sword, spear,” Verkanus said. “Most will be iron or bronzed. Some few officers may have steel blades.”

  Bayne clanked his heavy blade against the side of the shield, smiling at being well fortified. He turned his smile upon the emperor. “I am strong. I am armed. What is to stop me, Lord Verkanus, from toppling you from your throne and taking it for myself?”

  The emperor blanched at the suggestion, but was forthcoming with an answer. “What need have you of a kingdom? A crown wears heavy upon the head. Assuredly, it comes with wealth and power, but it also comes with more than its share of responsibilities. Would you sit daily, weighing the judgments of men, counting the coppers brought to you by collectors, overseeing all the comings and goings and happenings within a kingdom? I sense these would become tedious to one as yourself.”

  Bayne nodded, lowering his sword and shield. “You are correct, Verkanus. But I need not serve you in slaying these Trodans. My own might secures my freedom from them. Unless you have something else with which to barter.”

  “You have no recollections of from where you came?”

  “You know I do not.”

  “Then I will supply this information to you,” the emperor said.

  Bayne’s gaze narrowed, growing suspicious. “You have already proved you have not this knowledge.”

  “True,” Verkanus said, “but I have strong magics at my call. Destroy these Trodans, securing both your and my freedoms, and I give promise I will use all my abilities to learn of your past, from where you have come.”

  Bayne’s eyes narrowed further, nearly to slits. Could he trust this mage king? As far as he knew, Bayne himself had come into existence but minutes earlier, having been born in the middle of a conflagration which itself was in the middle of a battlefield. He was meant to kill, possibly made to kill or born to kill. This he knew. It was in his heart and bones and mind. He was a killer. But he was unfamiliar with the world in which he had appeared. Was it even his own world? Were these his lands? If he should choose a side in the surrounding conflict, would one be more appropriate to him than another? He had no way to know, and no one to trust. Only his instincts could guide him, and his instincts insisted he was a slayer, a slaughterer, and it did not matter who fell below his mighty sword arm.

  “Very well,” the warrior spoke. “I will do your bidding in this, but prepare yourself for the consequences if you should deceive me. I expect answers, and I will not wait long for them.”

  The emperor’s answer was a grin filled with teeth.

  Bayne waved his sword to one side. “Which direction?”

  “We are at what had been the center of the conflict,” Verkanus said. “Now chaos reins and the fight has spread to all corners of the field. Pick your direction, and your fate, and drive back these Trodans.”

  Bayne nodded, saluted with the flat of his blade against his forehead and turned and strode away from the emperor mage.

  Crossing the flaming broken ground, nearing the screamings and the screeches of metal on metal, the scent of war and death wafted to Bayne’s nose. Burning flesh, the copper tinge of blood, urine and feces and sweat, all these were familiar to the warrior. He could not recollect from where he knew these scents, but they were a part of him, trapped within the recesses of a past he could not remember. These sensed things energized him, as if he were a wolf on the scent of prey and slathering at the thought of a future meal. Climbing the walls of the crater, leaning forward so far his chest nearly touched the scorched ground, Bayne wondered at his own thoughts. Normal men would be repulsed by these things, he knew, but not Bayne. Something about him sought glory and destruction.

  Soon enough, he found it.

  A giant ring of flame encircled the pit, reaching up above Bayne’s head. Beyond lay a realm of madness he imagined was far worse than the Hell of Verkanus’s demons. Men butchered one another as if all were livestock. Heavy blades cut through chain link and leather pads and bronze plate, chopping through flesh and bone. Limbs littered the black ground. Blood and brain and gore splashed through the air. The din of dying cries filled the ears.

  For the briefest of moments, Bayne questioned his survivability. He had no remembrance of his own combat skills, of his own invincibility. But something from within, from deep down in what could possibly be called a soul, told him he had nothing to fear from these battling men before him. He was not only better than them at this game of war, he was unbeatable. No individual could stand before him. No army could stand before him. Only the gods, if they existed, could dare to scrape metal and tissue with Bayne kul Kanon and survive, let alone triumph. He was made for this, for war and butchering.

  Bayne did not flinch, but walked through the fires as if they were not there. Traces of the blaze hung about his garb briefly, but soon enough died away as he entered the maelstrom of death.

  It became immediately clear what was before him was less a battle than a massacre. The Trodans in their red kilts and bronzed plates dominated this section of the battlefield as far as Bayne could see, across the blood-blackened ground to low hills on the horizon. The dark-garbed soldiers of Verkanus were few in numbers, their black chain and iron swords not enough to save them from their overwhelming enemy. The thousands of combatants before Bayne were trapped together, forced into one another in a giant mass by the pressing of thousands of more soldiers beyond each side. The middle of the fight was chaos, with weapons swinging and cutting and hitting as many enemies as foes. These men were packed so tight together, and their battle madness so high, they were killing everyone before them, regardless of the color of the uniforms.

  To Bayne, this madness was like a balm to a wound. He lifted his sword high above his head and cried out. His throaty roar rippled across the land, causing killers to pause in their butchery and to glance up to the death that awaited them.

  Then Bayne dove into the throng of slaughter. He launched himself from the raised lip of the crater and fell with sword swinging into the mass of men killing men.

  His blade sliced away one Trodan’s face, sending the man screaming with a bloody cavity for a mouth. Not stopping, Bayne slung his sword around to catch another man in the groin, him falling to the ground screaming for his father. Using his shield, Bayne knocked aside several attacks from others’ swords, all the while keeping his own short blade whirling and dealing death to those around him.

  The big warrior’s appearance and blood-thirsty attack stunned most of the Trodans into inaction for several long moments, but these were men familiar with the battlefield and the soldiering life. They were not fools, but well trained and experienced. Once the shock of Bayne’s attack settled in, the bronze-plated Trodans backed away from the madman dealing death, forming a large circle around him.

  Bayne soon found himself without an immediate foe. The soldiers in red had backed away, leaving him ample room to stumble around on the dead and dying. Blood already gelled about his legs, covering his boots. Splashes of gore decorated his chest and shield. But he would not be denied further bloodshed.

  The warrior raised his head high once more and screamed to the heavens.

  The Trodans took that as a sign to attack. A dozen of them quickly stepped into a squared formation and tromped forward, their tall wooden shields at the ready and their short swords out to one side and yearning to deal death.

  Bayne would have none of it. He charged, surprising his enemies once more, clashing into the middle of the shield wall facing him. His weight and strength were more than a match for normal men, and he proved thus as
he bashed aside two of his foes’ shields and sank a steel blade into a man’s throat.

  There was a scattering then, the Trodans fleeing further back, away from this godlike being that had appeared from the crater.

  Arrows were launched, javelins thrown, all to little avail. Bayne’s shield yielded beneath the many darts flung upon it, cracking and tumbling from the man’s grip, but Bayne was swift enough to dodge many of the attacks and soon had another shield, that of a dead man, strapped to his arm. What few arrows made it past his defenses left shallow scratches upon his arms and legs, and miracle of miracles the wounds healed themselves before the very eyes of the Trodans.

  Here was magic unbeatable, so the Trodans figured, a magic likely called down by Verkanus himself. Not being fools, the Trodan generals would sacrifice no more of their men upon the wall of death that was Bayne. Horns sounded in the distance and flags of gold and red dipped along the horizon, and soon enough the Trodan soldiers nearest Bayne formed into retreating lines, never leaving their back to their opponent, always ready for an assault.

  Bayne would not let them go without a contest. He lunged and stabbed and slashed, cutting down retreating men left and right. The Trodans tried to put up a fight, but it was little use. Individually they were no match for this strange, unbeatable figure, and as a collective their only hope might have been in throwing down their weapons and piling upon Bayne, which was something they would not do as no true Trodan soldier would ever willingly toss aside his sword.

  Covered with bits of lung and brain and stripped flesh and blood, Bayne soon found himself alone in his vicinity of the battlefield. He stood tall, his red-splattered legs slightly bent as if awaiting a fresh attack. About him could be heard moans and cries of dying men, most wounded Trodans though some few of Verkanus’s men howled and crawled through the muck.

  Bayne glanced behind himself in order to thwart any possible subterfuge, was surprised at what he found and had to stop and fully turn and stare. The edge of the crater was nearly a mile distant, and between him and the pit were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of dead and wounded soldiers laid out in great piles and masses.