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  “Good day to you,” the stranger said as he stepped into Bayne’s path.

  The big warrior blinked at the newcomer and realized this was an ambush. Bayne’s ears picked up no untoward sounds, so it was likely the other members of this deception were lying in wait just ahead but somewhere near their partner in Bayne’s way.

  The look of the man who had just appeared gave everything away. It wasn’t so much the sly grin on his face as his stance and garb. He was obviously a warrior himself, short and thin but with muscles appearing beneath his studded leather jerkin and padded leggings. At his belt hung a short sword and a sizable dagger. He stood with his legs slightly apart, the right just barely ahead of the left, and his hands drooped about the hilts of his weaponry. More telling was the look of steel in his eyes and the pale scar that ran from beneath his left eye down his check to flare at his chin. This was a man familiar with violence, dealing it and receiving it. This was no common thug or highwaymen; such would not appear with the encampment so near.

  No, this man was one of the gladiators.

  “Good day to you,” the stranger repeated. “Or are you too rude to answer.”

  Bayne gritted his teeth. “It is not a good day.”

  The smile on the gladiators face broadened yet remained thin. “For some, that is true. For myself, I find it a fine day.”

  Bayne saw no reason to mince words with this fool. “Step aside or your mood will soon change.”

  That grin kept growing, now showing teeth.

  Enough. Bayne’s right hand shot up and grasped the hilt of his sword, bringing the large weapon around.

  The short sword appeared in one of the gladiator’s hands, his knife in the other.

  Steel swung from upon high, the heavy blade crashing into the iron weapons of the smaller swordsman, denting those blades and barreling through to split the man’s head down to his chin.

  Bayne slid his weapon free of the flopping, parted head and stepped back as the body dropped to its knees and fell over, brains and gore spreading in a circle around the corpse.

  There was an audible gasp from further down the pathway.

  Bayne looked up to find two more men facing him. They stood in shock a rock-tossing distance from him, the muscles bulging beneath their leather armor and the maces and swords in their hands no defense against the emotional assault of the quick slaughter of their friend. These were fighting men, but even they were not familiar with such destruction.

  “If he was your companion,” Bayne said, nodding to the bloody mess on the ground before him, “I suggest you collect him and bury him soon. That head isn’t going to become any easier to carry.”

  Two pairs of eyes came up to reflect upon the brawny warrior in the path. Two pairs of eyes narrowed and grew dark. The two men trotted forward, weapons prepared at their sides.

  At an earlier time Bayne might have warned the two fellows off. He might have shook his head. But not now.

  He flung himself over the nearly headless corpse, landing on a shoulder and rolling forward, his weapon gripped tight in both hands and swinging with his body.

  Steel thunked through meat and one gladiator was suddenly separated from his moccasined feet. He plummeted to the earth with a scream.

  The other fighter was more wary of Bayne. He jumped back, out of the reach of that gigantic swinging sword. When the huge warrior rolled onto his feet once more, that last gladiator dove in with a swing of his iron-headed mace, crashing against the side of Bayne’s head.

  There was a crunching sound followed by a splash of blood, then the gladiator jumped back to see what damage he had done.

  Bayne stood there, one eye filled with blood and swollen, a large gash across the side of his face. But he seemed in no pain. He shifted on his feet, bringing his sword around in front as he turned slightly to face the last of his attackers.

  The footless gladiator on the ground continued to cry out, to scream to Holy Ashal, to ask for forgiveness for all his sins, to beg his parents for absolution.

  Bayne took one step back and stomped.

  The footless gladiator went quiet.

  Bayne took one step forward and halted.

  The last gladiator went pale. It did not help the desperate man that the wound along Bayne’s face was already healing due to the big warrior’s own internal powers. Within seconds Bayne’s gore-filled eye was whole again and there was no longer a sign of a fresh wound upon him other than drying stripes of blood.

  The two stood there surveying one another, Bayne as solid as oak, the gladiator’s jaw quivering.

  The gladiator opened his mouth.

  His words would never be known.

  Bayne lunged, his two-handed sword extended at the fullness of his reach. The end of the blade split leather and flesh and sank into the gladiator’s chest, bursting the man’s heart from the strength of the blow.

  For a moment the stunned dead man stood, gasping once, his eyes seemingly unbelieving at his fate. Then his face seemed to close in on itself and he fell over dead.

  Bayne went down on a knee and cleaned his weapon on the corpse’s leggings. Then he stood, returned his weapon to its sheath on his back and resumed his walk as if nothing untoward had occurred.

  Once more, he did not make it far.

  An arrow struck the mountain wall ahead of the warrior, exploding into splinters.

  The big sword was out in a flash, Bayne spinning to face this new taunt.

  Half a dozen men were scrambling up the rise from the gladiators’ camp to the trail where Bayne now crouched. Two were the shirtless sparring partners Bayne had witnessed but minutes earlier. Three were the ones who had sat at the fire. One was a new and older man, heavy and dressed in a flowing cloak.

  All carried weapons and looks of enmity.

  The nearest was the archer who had loosed the arrow that had missed its target. He was one of the shirtless fighters, a short bow in his right hand bending as his left drew back the string and another arrow.

  As was his nature, Bayne roared and charged down the hill.

  The arrow launched.

  It caught in the big warrior’s right shoulder, sinking through flesh and muscle, burying deep and scraping against steel bone.

  Bayne did not even slow down. He plowed into the archer, trampling the muscled but smaller fellow, knocking him to one side.

  The other shirtless fighter sprang in front of the rampaging warrior, slashing out with a short sword. The iron blade scraped along chain links and was pulled back for another blow that never came. The heavy pommel of Bayne’s weapon hammered against the man’s skull, cracking it and leaving an indention before death rolled over the fellow and dropped him.

  The next gladiator wielded a hooked knife, a partner slightly behind raising an iron spear for a throw.

  Bayne hefted his two-handed sword high above his head then slung out his arms, sending the humongous blade twirling through the air. The knife fighter shouted and dropped to the ground, the giant gyrating missile dancing awkwardly over his head.

  The spearman was not so lucky. He had a moment of surprise, as no one would ever throw such a weapon in such a fashion, then a moment of realization that he would not be able to move out of the way. The wheeling weapon chopped against his neck, nearly separating the head from the body, then dropped to the ground as blood sprayed forth.

  The gladiator with the hooked knife screamed and jumped to his feet, charging up the hill at his enemy.

  Bayne stepped into the man, driving up a flat palm to crush a nose and send cartilage back into brain. The big man’s other hand grasped at a wrist and squeezed, crushing bone. Before the dead gladiator’s body touched the ground, Bayne had removed the fellow’s knife and wielded it himself.

  Another arrow sank into the big man’s left leg.

  The archer was back.

  Bayne pivoted to face the return of this attacker.

  Another arrow was already being pulled back.

  Fast as a wild animal,
Bayne knelt and grabbed a dead man by the back of the neck, lifting the body in front of himself.

  An arrow launched.

  And sank into a corpse’s stomach.

  Bayne dropped the body and took a step toward the archer.

  The other two gladiators were suddenly upon the large warrior from behind. The older, heavier man in the cloak smacked a knotted staff against Bayne’s head. The other combatant lashed out with a spiked mace, the blow connecting with Bayne’s right shoulder beneath where an arrow protruded.

  The big warrior hardly seemed to notice.

  Without turning to face his latest opponents his knife hand slashed back, cutting across the mace wielder’s throat, then the knife flipped through the air and landed in the other hand, which stabbed backwards several times, each gash sinking into the large cloaked figure’s chest.

  There was a groan and two men fell to the rocky soil.

  Bayne stood staring at the archer. Blood dripped from the now unmoving knife in his left hand. Blood dripped from the arrow in his right shoulder. Blood dripped from the arrow in his left leg. But Bayne stood.

  The bowman’s legs shook. “By Ashal,” he whispered, his lips aquiver.

  Bayne marched forward.

  The archer spun and ran, tossing aside his bow, tearing away the soft leather case on his back that held a half dozen arrows. He threw all aside in hopes of speeding his escape.

  But he did not escape.

  The man had fled no more than a dozen yards when he was hit from behind, the curved blade of Bayne’s knife ripping into muscle and laying open his skin. The poor gladiator hollered and fell forward, his head cracking against a stone and sending him into blessed unconsciousness.

  Bayne finished by kneeling next to the fellow and splitting his throat.

  Then the big warrior stood and walked back along the road to make sure there were no more fools charging up from the camp. There were none.

  But the old man, the one in the cloak, he continued to gurgle and breath.

  Bayne squatted next to the fellow and grabbed his hair and tugged, lifting the head as his other hand brought forward the curved blade to end the man’s misery.

  The old man’s eyes flickered open. “W-w-wait.”

  Bayne waited. Perhaps this one would have something useful to say.

  “I can … I can make you rich,” the dying man said. “Just don’t k-k-kill me.”

  “I seek no riches,” Bayne said, bringing the knife closer to the other’s throat.

  “W-wait!” The man’s voice was stronger, nearly shrieking now, his eyes large. “I could make you a gladiator! You would travel, know many women, have the experiences of a lifetime!”

  Bayne grimaced. “Is that why your men assaulted me? To make me a gladiator?”

  “They were to enslave you,” the old man said. “It is the way of things. But I have witnessed your strength, your talents. You c-c-could be the greatest gladiator who has ever lived!”

  “No, thank you.” The blade bored deep, shredding the old man’s throat, laying open a wound the size of an apple.

  Bayne stood and stepped back, staring at his handiwork.

  Then he dropped the knife and retrieved his sword, cleaning the weapon on a dead man’s cloak.

  He paused for a moment to survey the carnage he had unleashed. For a moment he considered burying the bodies, or at least covering them with rocks. It was the right thing do to. It was what he would have done once upon a time. But Bayne did not. He was no longer that man.

  Instead, he stared down at the campsite below. There was food to be had, and he could feel his stomach rumbling. He did not know the last time he had eaten, but it had likely been days, perhaps longer. Too, there were riding animals. It had been years since he had ridden a horse, and he was not the most skilled at it, but such an animal could speed his travels to this Ashalite temple.

  With no more thoughts for the dead, Bayne tugged free the arrows from his body, dropped them and marched down the hill.

  Part III: The Speech

  The concept of leisure time was one foreign to Bayne kul Kanon. He had spent all his known life hiking, climbing, on rare occasions riding, and often fighting. But as he advanced upon the gladiators’ camp it occurred to him that here was a wealth of riches for a man like him. Obviously there was food in abundance, at least for one man. There were animals to ride or eat. There were also likely weapons of which he could have his pick. The wagons were also his for the taking. Booty was not normally of interest to Bayne, other than for bare necessities, but the camp site appealed to him as a temporary respite from the storm that had been his tumultuous life.

  Before he had even reached the first wagon he had decided he would spend a day or two in this spot, lounging to some extent but also pondering his future. Once he finished whatever business there would be with Pedrague, he would be a man free to choose his destiny. The most obvious choices for a man such as Bayne would be a martial life, one of soldiering or even possibly of leadership. But that did not appeal to him. He had been a god of war in another universe, and he had dealt out enough carnage in this world, but that did not mean he wanted strife constant in his life. The glory of war was strong in this one, literally built into his blood thousands of years in the past in the world of Marnok, but it came at a hefty price.

  Bayne was not lonely. That was another concept beyond him. If anything, his emotions leaned in a direction much the opposite.

  He had grown tired of and disgusted with humanity.

  It seemed nearly every person he met wished to slay him. Some did so for glory, others for spite, some for money. Others had reasons that were unknown or nonsensical. Though Bayne felt the rise of competition in his veins when combat ensued, until recently he had had no wish to slay nearly everyone he came into contact with.

  Now Bayne felt differently. He still had no want or need to spill blood constantly, but he had lost all luster for mortal men. They badgered him often. They threatened and assaulted him with little or no cause. He would no longer tolerate such. If he were a god of war, then so be it. Let humanity be warned. Stray from the path of Bayne kul Kanon or be prepared to be butchered.

  As he came up to the first wagon, the one built something like a stronghold on huge wheels, Bayne slowed to watch for further attacks. He believed the gladiators were all dead, otherwise more would have attacked or fled, but one could never be too careful. As if he had anyone of whom to be afraid.

  Since no one jumped out at him, he came to a halt before the largest of wagons and stared at its craftsmanship. It was a fine vehicle, unusual in its size and heft and structure, but one Bayne could appreciate. It would be a slow monster being pulled across the plains, but it would offer a level of protection not only from the elements but from any brigands absurd in their beliefs of ransacking the giant cart. Even if the pulling animals were slain, nothing short of siege weaponry or a large fire would penetrate the wagon, with the possible exception of magic.

  Bayne wondered what use this large wagon held. It seemed relatively new and in fine condition, and had been built with quality craftsmanship, so he leaned toward it being a traveling paradise for the leader of the gladiators, perhaps the old man he had slain upon the hillside. But the structure was too large simply for one man, unless it was a man with a huge ego, and the old man had not shown that as he had been willing to fight and eventually die alongside his compatriots. Perhaps the gladiators had shared the thing as a living quarters?

  His interest growing, Bayne walked around the front of the wagon, past the thick protruding tongue of the vehicle where beasts would be lashed.

  There on the ground sat a man.

  Instincts took over as Bayne jumped back, hunkering low while his right hand arched up for the sword hanging from his back.

  “Hello, there,” the sitting man said.

  Upon a second look, it became obvious to Bayne this stranger was no immediate threat. Though tall and broad of chest and shoulders, his wrists were en
circled by iron shackles from which hung heavy chains that looped around his waist and disappeared behind his seated figure. The man looked up at Bayne, his gaze steady beneath straight locks the color of aging milk and hanging down to his shoulders, a similarly long mustache bending low at the edges of his pale lips. His only garb were tattered leather breeches and a mud-splattered muslin shirt that was nearly but strips of cloth.

  A prisoner. A slave. Someone the gladiators had captured.

  Bayne stood tall once more, withdrawing the hand from his sword and allowing it to hang at his side. “I suppose you wish to be freed.”

  “Of course I wish to be freed,” the yellow-haired fellow said, “but you do not look the type who will do so. I suppose you kill me now?”

  “What would make you think that?” Bayne asked.

  “I might be pinioned here, but my ears work just fine,” the stranger said. “I heard the sounds of battle, the screeches of metal, the cries of death coming from the mountainside. The slavers all charged toward the hill, then only you come down from the hill.”

  Bayne allowed a dark grin to cross his lips.

  “However you are going to do it,” the other said, “I wish you would be quick about it. I’ve not eaten in days and I’m famished. Death would be a relief to my hunger.”

  Bayne grunted, still smiling, and walked past the prisoner.

  The chained man sat silent.

  Bayne sauntered away from the large wagon, past the next and only came to a pause when he reached the far end of the final wagon. The warrior picked up a pair of iron tongs hanging on the side of the cart and used the tool to pry away the lid on the black pot hanging from the tripod over the cooking fire.

  “Stew,” Bayne said, staring at the boiling mixture of meat and vegetables. The concoction had likely been cooking all night.

  He tossed the tongs to the ground and turned to examine the stacked crates in the back of the nearest wagon. His eyes roamed over the boxes, searching for any markings of what could be found inside. After a few minutes of discovering no engravings or writings, he hammered a fist into the top of a crate, cracking wood and sending splinters flying. Prying away the broken slats, Bayne found various weapons of iron wrapped with straw.