The Sword Of Bayne Omnibus Read online

  He pulled out a sizable dagger still in a simple cowhide sheath and hefted it. Then he drew the weapon from its binding and waved it around in front of himself. Next he stabbed at the air a few times with the knife, then flipped it in the air and caught it by the blade. The weight was fine, the balance better than he expected. He stuffed the dagger back into its sheath then stuck his newfound weapon into his belt; the blade would be a decent replacement to the one he had lost somewhere, somehow in another world, another time.

  Bayne smashed open another crate and stared at its contents. Tools. Hammers. Nails. Hand saws. Metal files.

  He grinned once more as he reached within the crate and drew out one of the files.

  Bayne rounded the corner of the wagon and approached the chained man.

  “Here.” Bayne tossed the file at the man’s feet, then turned and walked back to the boiling stew.

  A half an hour later, after Bayne had thoroughly searched the last wagon and filled a wooden bowl with stew, the former prisoner appeared from around the side of the cart.

  Bayne was squatting near the fire, using his new knife to spear chunks of steaming meat from his bowl. He pointed the dagger at the hanging caldron. “Feel free to eat. There is more than enough.”

  The other man rubbed at the raw marks on his wrists, his own big muscles bulging at the effort as he reached into the near wagon and produced another bowl. “My thanks,” he said as he found a wooden spoon and used it to retrieve bubbling stew.

  “No thanks necessary,” Bayne said before taking another mouthful.

  The blond man squatted across the flames from Bayne, the two men eating in silence. Neither stared at the other. Not even a glance. Each seemed intent upon his meal. Eventually both were finished and tossed their bowls and utensils to one side.

  Both stood.

  The flaxen-haired one motioned toward the mountain. “I suppose Fegger and his men tried to make you one of their slaves for the arena?”

  Bayne nodded. “They tried.”

  The other fellow thrust out a hand. “My name is Lerebus.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “I need no companions,” Bayne said, his eyes like those of a wolf. “I prefer no companions.”

  “Very well,” Lerebus said, lowering his offered hand, “but I thought it fitting I know the name of the man who returned to me my freedom.”

  Bayne waved toward the wagon. “Take what weapons and food you wish, then be on your way.”

  Lerebus stood there a moment, his own gaze steady, then he abruptly spun and began rummaging through the many crates which Bayne had already mostly opened. A few remained closed, as if the scarred warrior had lost interest in his search, but Lerebus used the hilt of a short sword to smash and the blade to pry open the remaining crates.

  All the while, Bayne sat on a nearby stump, running a newly-discovered whetting stone up and down the lengths of his knife.

  Another hour passed, this one with Lerebus busy pulling garments and weapons and sacks of foodstuff from the many boxes. By the time he was finished, the blond-haired man wore garb new to him, soft deerskin boots that climbed nearly to the knees, a maroon jerkin of soft leather over a pale muslin shirt that tied about his wrists, black breeches that were stuffed into the tops of his boots. Girded about his waist was a wide belt of red leather, hanging from it a sheathed dagger on his left hip and a sheathed short sword on his right hip. He used a bronze clasp to attach a gray cloak about his shoulders, and from his back dangled a soft leather pack stuffed with food, water skins and whatever gear the man had felt necessary.

  In his hands he hefted a long oak pole tipped with a black iron spear head.

  By this time, Bayne finished sharpening his knife. He slid the blade into its scabbard and hid the whetstone in a pocket.

  Lerebus turned to the man who had freed him. “I will be leaving now,” he said, “but I am asking permission to take one of the horses.”

  Bayne shoved off from the stump and stood. “Why would you need to ask my permission?”

  “You conquered here today,” Lerebus explained. “You also freed me. I would not think of robbing you of your rightful gain.”

  “The horses are free to take. Only leave me one, at the least.”

  “My thanks,” Lerebus said. “I also need direction to the nearest village.”

  “You do not know this land?”

  “I do not,” Lerebus said. “Fegger and his crew captured me further north. They brought me south to fight in the arenas in Trode and Brome.”

  Bayne sighed and pointed toward the mountain. “There is an old trail that runs along the rise there. I have been told it leads to a village.”

  Lerebus raised an eyebrow. “So you also are not familiar with these lands?”

  “No,” Bayne said. “I have been … away for a lengthy period.”

  The blond-headed fellow paused to stare at the mountain, noticing the scavenging birds were already at work tearing into the bodies laying there, then asked, “Are you headed to this village?”

  Bayne sighed once more. “I am.”

  “Then should we not accompany one another?” Lerebus asked.

  “Why?” Bayne asked. “And do not bring up bandits to me. I am more than capable of protecting myself.”

  “I have witnessed,” Lerebus said, “but perhaps it is I who seeks the protection. I am a stranger here, and do not know the lay of the land nor the customs.”

  “You speak Ursian well enough,” Bayne pointed out.

  Lerebus nodded. “It is a common enough tongue, a trader’s tongue, even in my homeland of Jorsica.”

  Bayne spat into the fire. “Very well. Help me to clear this camp, then we will be on our way. I do not look forward to company, but as we are traveling the same direction, I would rather you were with me than tagging along behind like some lost puppy.”

  No more words were passed between the two for the next several hours. Bayne packed a sack of his own full of foodstuffs, slung it on his back, then went to work taking down the cooking utensils and putting out the fire. During this Lerebus kept busy straightening the crates in the back of the one wagon, then made his way through the others, finding more than enough coin to fill a small bag which he held out to Bayne. The scarred warrior shook his head. Lerebus shrugged and deposited the sackful of coin into his own backpack.

  At one point Bayne sauntered over to shove open a door to the wagon that was built like a small, rolling castle. Inside was pure opulence. The floor was a waxed pine layered in thick rugs of a dark red. The walls were covered by multi-colored tapestries depicting animals and warriors and monsters in all types of battle scenes. About the room inside the wagon was scattered several padded chairs, a solid oak desk and even a wardrobe that had been bolted to the floor. There was enough here to make a poor man wealthy, but Bayne showed no interest and turned away. Lerebus appeared happy with the bag of coin.

  Finished with the wagons, the two men spent time rounding up a pair of steeds for themselves. They ended up with beasts that were nearly twins, a pair of roan light horses. Saddles and harness and tack were found lying about near the supply wagon. Once their animals were ready for riding, Bayne spent several minutes knocking down the fences holding the other animals.

  “They will be better free than penned here without food, waiting for wolves to find them,” Bayne said, his first words in some time.

  The oxen and other horses spent little time in the vicinity, rambling off on their own, heading toward the forest’s treeline far in the distance to the west.

  In their saddles, the two swordsmen glanced about at what they were leaving behind. The campsite was now neat, more straight than it had been when Bayne had arrived, and this seemed proper to both men.

  “What of the bodies?” Lerebus asked.

  Bayne only shook his head, then kicked the side of his riding beast with his boots and took off at a trot. Lerebus followed with no more immediate questions.


  Instead of climbing up to the old goat path, Bayne followed the trail as best he could lower down the slight ridge where the green of the field mingled with the dirt and rocks that grew into the mountain. Riding a horse along the path would have been ungainly for beast and rider alike.

  The two riders slowed their steeds to little more than a canter once they had some distance from the camp. Following the path higher up was an easy enough task, though a couple of times that road disappeared among boulders and Bayne had to look ahead and guess where the trail would be visible once more. Luck was with him, as he never managed to lose their way.

  The day grew more chilly as the two rode along, gray clouds scouring across the sky to shield the sun and a heavy wind picking up to dust their clothes. Their path gradually turned due east, with the mountain range growing larger and larger in their sight.

  The quiet eventually got the best of the blonde-headed Lerebus. “I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

  “About what?”

  “The gladiators.”

  “What of them?”

  “I realize Fegger and his gang attacked you,” Lerebus said, “but I was surprised there were no survivors. I never saw them in action, but they seemed tough men who knew what they were doing.”

  “They did,” Bayne said, “but I gave none a chance to live. They attacked me. They paid the price. The old man, I’m guessing the Fegger of which you speak, made a plea for his life. I ignored it.”

  Lerebus winced. “I have no love for those lost, but I’m curious as to why you slew them to a man. Would it have not made more sense to spare at least one of them?”

  “Why?”

  “Various reasons,” Lerebus said. “Perhaps for directions, or knowledge of recent events. You mentioned you had been away from the region for some while. I would have thought you might want to have a general awareness of your surroundings.”

  “I care little for such,” Bayne said with a contemptuous snort.

  “I see.”

  “The truth is,” Bayne went on, “I despise the very idea of gladiators and gladiatorial combat.”

  The blonde man’s face screwed up in confusion. “By what reasoning?”

  “They make a game of death,” Bayne said. “It is a sport worse than a waste of time. They make a spectacle of mortality, which is not something to be thrown away. And gladiators and their ilk often enough frown upon those who have not the strength of arms to match their own skills and talents, as if the only worth of a human is his or her ability with a sword, the ability to kill.”

  “You seem to have a strong opinion on this.”

  “I do,” Bayne said, “but pay little attention to my verbal ramblings. My love for humanity has been stretched to its limits. I am not a forgiving man.”

  With that the larger warrior charged his horse ahead in silence. Once again, Lerebus followed.

  Eventually the night came on, the sun’s death gradual on the plain and the light lingering upon the sky. It was not long after darkness when the riders spotted dancing golden lights far in the distance almost directly ahead of their path.

  “The village,” Bayne commented as the two slowed their steeds.

  “Do you want to ride in tonight, or wait until morning?” Lerebus asked.

  The scarred warrior yanked the reins of his horse, bringing the animal to a halt, as did the other rider. “The night hides the old path from us,” Bayne said, “but as the light of the village is revealed to us, I see no reason to linger.”

  Lerebus agreed and soon they were riding again, though at a slower rate now so their animals would not stumble upon any holes in the ground.

  Distance had played them false across the flat grasslands, for it was some hours before the village began to take shape in their eyes. All that could be seen from the field was a wall of timber, the tops of each log carved to a point, across what appeared to be a narrow valley leading into the mountain range. In the center of the tall wall was imposed a double door, likely barred from the inside. There were no windows.

  But there were plenty of signs of life. The glow of much firelight and the casual sounds of talking and even singing came from beyond the barricade.

  The warriors reined in their steeds in front of the door.

  Bayne leaned to one side in his saddle and hammered at the door with a fist.

  The noises beyond the wall continued, and for several minutes the two riders believed their knocking had gone unheard.

  Then, from the other side of the door, “Hello! What business do you have in town tonight?”

  “Is this the village that leads to the Ashalite temple in the mountains?” Bayne asked, his voice raised above the din of the town.

  “There is a trail into the mountains and then down to the valley of the monks, yes,” the other voice answered.

  “We are traveling to the temple and seek shelter for the night,” Bayne said.

  There was a clanking noise from the other side of the wall, then a small portion of the door, a section no bigger than a melon, swung inward on unseen hinges at eye level. Bayne found himself appreciating the craftsmanship of the hidden window as even close up he had not been able to tell there was a potential opening there.

  A snarled, gray-headed face appeared in the window, one eye closed, the other staring out and up and down. Despite the striking look of the fellow, a grin rode his features.

  “Shoosh, you are an ugly one,” the man said to Bayne, his smile not faltering.

  “May we find a room for the night?” the big warrior asked, ignoring the comment about his blemished features.

  “Just the two of you, eh?” the old man said. Then he chuckled. “I suppose there’s no place to hide an army if you were looking to ransack the town.”

  Bayne glanced back at Lerebus, neither man seeming to appreciate the doorman’s humor.

  “Very well, very well,” the old man said.

  Then he disappeared as the window was closed.

  It was but a moment later, preceded by more sounds of metal upon metal behind the wall, when the giant doors opened by swinging outward.

  Bayne and Lerebus moved their horses away as to avoid the swinging doors.

  When the aperture was fully open, beyond could be seen a dirt road that lead through the heart of the town, the town itself built along and climbing the sides of the narrow canyon. There were many lights, torches hanging from sconces and colored paper balls of light seemingly floating upon the air but upon a sharper glance were found to be attached to thin wires. Everywhere there seemed to be light, even candles in windows and townspeople scurrying along with torches or lanterns. With such a glow the two riders were able to make out the goat path they had followed earlier had wound down from the side of the mountain and rounded to the entrance to the town.

  The noise too continued to grow from within. There seemed to be some sort of festival going on as the townspeople were frolicking about, dancing, singing, drinking, carousing on doorsteps. The place seemed to be made up of wooden structures with slate roofs, many of the buildings two and three stories tall and climbing up the sides of the stone valley. How far back the town extended could not be told as the road itself soon curved to the left, though there was plenty of light and sound coming from that direction as well.

  “Welcome,” said the old man, strolling out from the left side of the wall. He was short and bent over in his aged condition, yet he wore a dulled shirt of bronze scales and carried a spear, more as a walking stick than as a weapon. It was obvious he was the night guard, and it was more obvious this town did not expect danger from beyond its walls.

  “Hello,” Lerebus said.

  Bayne remained quiet for the moment.

  “You are arriving just in time for the festival of Ashal Mass,” the old man said. “Tonight of all nights we welcome all those with good intents.”

  “What is this Ashal Mass?” Bayne questioned.

  “You don’t know of Ashalmas?” Lerebus asked his companion.

&nb
sp; The scarred warrior and the old man both looked to the blond-headed rider.

  “Has the holy day spread so far north?” the old man asked of Lerebus. “You have the look of a Jorsican or Dartague about you.”

  Lerebus appeared uneasy for a moment, but then he answered, “I have traveled far from my homeland. Many times I have come across communities celebrating the birth of Ashal.”

  The old guard harumphed. “Well, what do you know? Here I was thinking it was just a local custom. The priests at the temple will be glad to hear of this.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Bayne said, then turned back to face the old man. “Can you point us in the direction of the nearest inn?”

  The aged guard pointed his spear along the solitary path into the heart of the town. “Just follow the road. In a few minutes you’ll come across a place with a sign that says ‘The Undecided Rat.’ That’s where you’ll want to go. Decent place despite the name, prices are fair. Might be a little rowdy tonight. Besides the festival, they’re having speeches by the two idiots running for mayor this year. But you two fellows look as if you can handle yourself.”

  Bayne nodded to the old man and kneed his horse’s sides, leading the animal into the town.

  “Many thanks,” Lerebus said to the guard, then he followed his companion.

  In spite of the carnivalesque throngs storming through the town making a din with their chaos, the two riders had little problem traversing the dirt path through the place, the houses and other structures continuing to climb the sides of the canyon as the road went deeper and deeper into the festivities. Despite the frivolity, the crowd seemed aware of the dangers of straying in front of two well-armed riders atop sturdy steeds.

  Soon enough a sign could be spotted ahead, hanging in front of a wooden building on the right of the way. The sign read, “The Undecided Rat.” Bayne climbed down from his saddle and lead his animal the rest of the way, Lerebus following, the two coming to a halt only when they were in front of the establishment.

  The two swordsmen tied their beasts to a hitching post, threw saddle bags over their shoulders then straddled their way up the three steps of lumber that fed the entrance of the inn. There was no proper door, but a blanket of heavy wool had been nailed above the entrance and seemingly kept out much of the outdoors.