

## Bayne's Climb

### Book I of The Sword of Bayne

by Ty Johnston

Copyright 2010 L.M. Press

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

for Vance and Norton

### Dear reader

Thank you for taking the time, and shelling out some change, to read this novella. Bayne's Climb is the first part of a three-part series of novella's collectively titled The Sword of Bayne. The second part is A Thousand Wounds, and the third Under the Mountain, all available in e-book format.

This series is somewhat experimental, utilizing and mixing together allegorical fiction, epic fantasy, Sword & Sorcery and a touch here and there of literary fiction. I hope this mixture works. You the reader are the final judge.

Also, for those of you familiar with The Kobalos Trilogy and the adventures of my Kron Darkbow character, The Sword of Bayne takes place in the same world, but nearly two thousand years before the events of The Kobalos Trilogy.

22 years After Ashal (A.A.)

Chapter I: The Foot

The mountain stood before him, and he stood before the mountain. They were alike in many regards, the mountain and the man, it broad at its base with crags rising up along its ridges, he broad at the shoulders with muscles growing like rugged hills along his arms. Even their heads were similar, his pale and bare beneath the morning sun, the mountain's encrusted with the white of snow. Glints of bronze and steel winked where his sword hung on his back and an armless chain shirt enveloped his chest; the mountain, too, spotted sparks of brightness, these from the morning dew resting high along its peaks and even higher among ice and snow.

At the base of the mountain rested a village that was not quite a village. Only four leaning houses of aged logs with muddy straw stuffed between were the place, a strand of black smoke snaking its way up from a hole in the roof above one of the shelters.

Bayne drew his gaze from the shadowed heights and stared at this village that was not a village. Behind him for miles stretched the dark green of forest broken only by the trail of a brick road cracked and crumbling in places like the broken bones of some ancient, long-dead wyrm.

There was nothing else before him. Just the mountain and the village that was not a village.

Bayne sighed and strode forward, his booted feet following the remains of the collapsing road that soon disappeared beneath his steps and was replaced with earth packed by years of wagon wheels and hooves and feet.

The path narrowed and wound between two of the houses which faced one another across the way. Doors were closed and windows shuttered, and all was quiet, but there was a sense of the human element. A small clay pot modeled flowers on a stoop. A scent of baking bread wafted through cracks between shutters. Ahead, that black smoke continued to rise up and up from one of the further buildings, the largest of the four.

Bayne walked on, between the first two houses, continuing as the way wove around toward the next two, which also faced one another across the path. The house on the left was the biggest one and it was this structure belching the smoke.

Sitting on the stone porch of this dwelling was an old man, one leg tucked beneath him on a step and the other stretched out into the dirt. Beneath brows the color of frost he watched the big man approach with wide, heavy steps. When Bayne finally came to a halt in front of him, the old man removed the red wooden pipe from between his cracked lips and blew out a circle of pale smoke which floated up and up to eventually mingle with the smolder from the house's chimney.

"Good day to you," the old man said with a nod.

Bayne eyed the man from the toes of his simple, worn moccasins, then his pallid muslin breeches to his plain, soft leather doublet. The big man shifted the sword on his back from one side to the other.

"Not the talkative sort?" the old man asked.

"Correct."

The old man puffed on his pipe and chuckled. "He said that, that you didn't talk much."

"Who?" Bayne asked.

The old man used his pipe to point further along the dirt road. The path stretched around a bend between tall bushes at the base of the mountain that rose directly above as if some ancient, hunkered god ready to pass judgment upon those of the village that was not a village.

"He passed through a couple of days ago," the old man said. "Said he would make rich any man who would kill you."

Here the old man grinned, showing most of his teeth were missing.

Bayne did not return the smile. He merely stared, his eyes hard as black iron.

The old man's grin faded. " 'Course I'm too old for such foolishness myself."

"All the better for you," Bayne said.

The old man puffed on his pipe. "And I'm no fool," he went on. "I know you."

The chain-clad warrior raised an eyebrow.

"You are Bayne," the old man said, "the one they call the wandering warrior."

"What makes you think thus?"

The old man chuckled again, but it quickly turned into a cackle which turned into a cough. He thrumbed at his chest with a flat hand, eventually able to breath once more, and spat yellow phlegm into the dust at his outstretched foot.

Bayne stood there the while waiting for a response to his question.

The old man flipped his pipe upside down and stamped on the bottom with the very hand that had patted his chest moments earlier. Ash and flakes of charred weed sprinkled the ground next to the steps.

Bayne remained patient.

"Your bald dome gave you away," the old man finally said. "That and the lack of gear you carry. Just a sword and that chain hauberk above enough clothes to barely cover a man. And winter coming along soon, too. One might think you were simple."

Bayne said nothing.

The old man grinned again. " 'Course I know better. A man like you couldn't be simple and have survived wading through all that blood and guts the Trodans put you through in Pursia."

Bayne's head raised as if he had lost interest in the old man. He scanned his surroundings, the four buildings and the road that lead up into the mountain. "Am I no longer in Pursia?"

"Nope." The old man shook his head and slid his still-warm pipe into a pocket. "If you've been on foot the whole while, you've been in southern Ursia at least three days."

Bayne's steel eyes lowered upon the old man again. "You still have not told me how you come to know me."

"Soldiers pass through from time to time," the old man explained. "Usually just a passing rider on his way to deliver some message or other to one of those fancy Trodan generals, but sometimes there's a whole pile of 'em, lined up like wooden soldiers straight out of a box of children's toys. They know who you are."

"Do they search for me?"

"They do not," the old man said. "They pass along your name as if a fable of the ancients. They speak of you as if with awe, barely above whispers."

The old man watched the warrior's face with interest then, as if he expected some kind of response. Perhaps a smile, the usual warrior's glee for the renown of his feats of arms.

The old man was left disappointed.

Bayne's face remained blank.

"Then came the other one," the old man said. "Just a couple of days ago."

"The one who wanted me killed."

"Yes, him."

"Tall man?" Bayne asked. "Black cloak?"

"And long, dark hair," the old man continued the description. "Had a band of white running back through that hair, too. Unnatural fellow. Unpleasant, though not rude. Just... it's difficult to describe."

"Full of menace," Bayne said.

"Exactly!" The old man slapped a patched knee. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

"He followed the road into the mountain?" Bayne asked.

The old man nodded again. "He meant to climb high, he said. I advised against it. Told him it was better to ride around."

"He did not heed your words."

"No," the old man said. "He said he meant to lure you into the mountains. He meant to lure you into your death."

A shadow of a smirk showed Bayne's first emotion of the day.

"But you are not so easy to kill," the old man said. "This is a known thing. Still, this mountain holds strange mysteries, things often better left unknown by man. Things often better not discovered."

The old man's eyebrows had lowered, giving him a visage nearly as sharp and heavy as that of the bulky warrior standing before him. Warning stood out in those eyes.

A dark cloud spread its shadow over the two men and brought about a chill wind that played at the edges of each man's garb. Bayne appeared not to notice. He glanced up at the mountain, at its highest peak straddling the sky itself and ringed by blanched clouds.

"What is it you seek, Bayne?" the old man asked, his voice now barely above a whisper. "What do you believe you will find along those ridges and heights?"

"My own self," was the answer.

The cloud overhead slid away upon the breeze.

The old man stared at the dirt beneath his feet and shook his head. "You seek that which is most frightening to many a man," he said. "Beware, Bayne, for sometimes madness and worse lies at the very root of a man, especially a man such as yourself."

"And what kind of man am I?" the warrior asked.

"The boldest of men, the hardiest," the old man said. "But you are also a man who has forded through the blood of others, who has drifted along the rivers of clashing strife. Even your name, Bayne, means death in the old tongue of the Zarroc.

"What will it do for you to look into the depths of that?"

The slight smirk slid away from Bayne's lips. "I have no choice but to follow the one I seek. He alone holds the keys to my true identity."

For the third time that day, the old man shook his head, this time in sorrow. "It is a sad thing for a man to not know himself."

"Aye."

The old man looked up into the warrior's eyes, each gaze holding the other. "It can also be a boon. Beware the mountain, Bayne. Its path is a long and winding one. Along its trail you will find dreams and nightmares of the worst sort. No man to my knowledge has climbed to the very top and come away alive and sane."

Bayne shifted his stare to the road once more. "Can you tell what I will find?"

"There is another village a day or so up the path," the old man said. "Beyond that, I have no particulars. Many times the young warriors marching through will take to the path, but none return. Sometimes a traveler, perhaps a merchant or a pilgrim, will follow the mountain trail. I have never witnessed them again."

Bayne nodded. "I thank you, old man, for your knowledge and for your advice."

"You will still take the path?"

"I will."

"Ashal be with you, then," the old man said.

Bayne nodded once more. Then he turned and strode away from the village that was not a village.

Only once, near the bend that would take the four buildings out of his sight, did the warrior glance over his shoulder.

The old man was gone. His pipe sat on the stoop, a ghost of smoke rising from it.
Chapter II: The Village

Through the rest of the day and the night and into the next morn, Bayne marched without rest. He did not stop to eat. He did not stop to sleep. The heavy muscles in his legs continued to work up and down like some mechanical construction. He never seemed to tire. Not so much as a sweat broke upon his brow.

The dirt road had been flat enough at first, then gradually rose around the edges of the mountain. The trek was an easy one, especially for Bayne.

A hoary wall of ancient stones rose upon his right, outcrops of sharp boulders and hanging greenery highlighting the natural barrier. On the left were trees. Eventually, as he slowly rose higher and higher, Bayne found he could look down upon the tops of the trees. Leafed greenery rustled near the edges of the cliff, not too far from the warrior's own steps, and every so often the song of a bird could be perceived beneath the shadows of limbs.

Out in the distance, beyond the mountains and the trees, the curving brick road stretched away through verdant fields and into Bayne's past. The village that was not a village could no longer be seen, lost around the curves of the mountain.

The night was cold, though Bayne seemed not to notice as he walked. The hoot of an owl rose to him from the tree branches, and several times he believed he heard the distant howls of wolves.

When the sun appeared the next morning, it began as a thin, red line on the horizon, then abruptly sprang to life and shed its glowing warmth upon the land and the mountain and the warrior's skin.

It was soon after Bayne came across three youths sitting atop boulders against the rising wall of the mountain to the right of the dirt road. They wore expressions of arrogance upon pale faces beneath mops of hair as black as emptiness. They were dressed in dark, loose leathers with dark boots rising above their knees. Each wore a thin sword on a belt around his waist, a matching dagger on the opposite hip.

Before Bayne had an opportunity to pause before them, to wish them a good morn or to ask directions or to make any number of other verbal approaches, the tallest of the three shoved away from his perch and stood with legs spread wide across the big man's path. The youth's hands strayed about the pommels of his weaponry.

Bayne stopped several yards away and eyed the fellow, then glanced to the others. The two still reclining atop rock seats sneered with an evil delight, as a cat would watching a mouse.

"You are out early this morning, father," the one across Bayne's path uttered, his words slipping from his tongue with distaste.

The brows of Bayne's eyes descended, angling above his nose. "I am no father to you, young one, nor to any child."

"Did you hear that?" the youth in the road asked, looking back to his friends. "This old man thinks I'm a child."

The two sitting burst into guffaws familiar from the throats of young men boastful and full of themselves. They bent over in their laughter and slapped one another around the shoulders.

The youth in the road straightened and faced Bayne directly. His right hand tightened on his sword and his left on his dagger. His eyes flared. "Perhaps I should show this fool just how much of a man I am." It was not a suggestion.

The other two went silent and still, the only movement their eyes flowing from their companion to the big warrior and back.

"Dying to prove your manhood is foolish," Bayne pointed out. "There is no need for this."

The wisdom was lost on the youth. He snapped out both hands, the sword in one and the short blade in the other. Rapier and dagger sprang forward.

Despite his size, Bayne was faster. His bulky arms flashed out with his own, heavier blade. Steel rang on steel. Bayne's sword knocked aside the lighter weapons of his foe with ease.

The youth took a step back, stunned by the quickness of the older, larger man. But it only took a moment for him to catch his momentum. He sprang again, bright silvered points aimed at the chest of the big warrior.

"This is foolish." Bayne's heavy blade slid along slender steel, at the quillons twitching the thin sword to one side, slashing the youth's hand and sending the rapier spiraling off the side of the mountain.

The young man's momentum carried his other attack, the dagger striking home between metal links, embedding in the thick muscles of Bayne's heaving chest.

The big warrior stood motionless, staring down at the weapon's pommel protruding from his breast and the growing circle of red beneath where the dagger had penetrated his chain shirt.

The youth was stunned that his foe had not fallen. He shook his wounded hand and took a step back, his eyes fastened on the bleeding wound he had caused. His two comrades sat silent, their own eyes wide.

Bayne's eyes came up, hard as steel and as black as a cave. "I gave you every opportunity."

His sword stabbed out, piercing the youth's stomach.

All arrogance abandoned the young man's face. Forever, his mouth formed into a screaming O.

Bayne shoved with the sword, sliding the blade further through the boy nearly to the big weapon's hilt, then he jerked back slightly and lifted.

The lad's eyes winced as he tried to scream, but there was only drool and blood spewing from his open mouth as he was raised above the warrior's head. Soon enough, the young man's head drooped and his dark hair hung in his still face.

As if the youth's weight was no more than a sack of flour, Bayne slung his weapon to one side, sending the body rolling and sputtering blood before coming to a stop at the feet of the young man's friends.

The youth did not rise.

The warrior walked to the body and leaned down, wiping his blade clean on the lad's pants. Returning his weapon to its sheath on his back, Bayne's other hand grabbed at the knife still sticking from his chest. He yanked.

The blade came free with a spattering of scarlet.

"Damn nuisance." The knife fell to the dust at his feet.

For the first time in long seconds, Bayne took notice of the other two boys.

They sat where they had. Motionless on the rocks. Their eyes wider than ever.

Bayne pointed down the road in the direction he had been heading. "Go."

The two went, jumping off boulders and shuffling away as if a devil were on their tails. Perhaps one was. At least they seemed to think so as they kept glancing over their shoulders.

Eventually the two disappeared around the next bend in the mountain, the dark-garbed youths mingling into tall trees climbing up and up.

Bayne sighed and watched for some little while to make sure the two were not fools planning to come back. Perhaps they were brave enough to ambush him further along his path, but he thought not. If so, however, he would deal with them when the time came.

He knelt next to the dead youth at his feet and shook his head. _Such a waste._ He grabbed the ankles and pulled the body to the side of the road.

Without a shovel it was not easy digging in the gravel-like soil, but Bayne used the dead youth's knife and eventually had a shallow grave into which he dropped the corpse. Covering the body was a much easier task, and by the end Bayne was covered in a gray dust.

He glanced to the grave and shook his head, then marched down the road.

As morning passed to day, the sun rose higher and beat down upon the chain-clad walker, drying the ring of red on his chest and leaving behind a crust which was nonchalantly brushed away. Of a wound to Bayne's chest, there was no sign.

About mid-day he came upon a village. It was a true village, not like the village that was not a village he had pondered at the foot of the mountain. Here Bayne paused long to take in his new surroundings.

The path that had been his road widened into a broad expanse big enough to house the dozen or so buildings that made up the village. These structures were two stories and built of dark wood beams and slate roofs; windows stood open to allow inside the day's warm breeze, the shutters painted greens and reds having been tied back with string attached to nails on the outer walls. The buildings formed a rough circle of sorts around a central area of packed earth, the middle of the small town, where was a well made of rock and mud binding. To Bayne's right, the backs of houses were built directly up against the stocky gray of the mountain. To his left, the houses sat on a giant lip of rock and dirt hanging out over a long drop to treetops below. Across the open middle of the town the road appeared to continue between two houses, turning from packed dirt into loose gravel beyond the structures.

Smoke flowed up from several chimneys. Black birds flitted by overhead. Curtains danced in open windows

No one was to be seen and silence ruled.

Bayne did not trust the tranquility. But he had to follow the man who wanted him killed.

He began to walk once more.

Bayne had not made it very far, not even past the first house, when a door creaked open at the second house, a dark structure to his left.

Just inside the door, leaning against the frame, stood a tall man wearing a broad-brimmed hat that shaded his eyes. Bayne felt menace from the stranger's look and stopped in his tracks to return the fellow's hard stare. Taking in the man's plain, dusty garb and the heavy, gray cloak hanging from his back, Bayne recognized the fellow as a Caballeran, one of the band of horse riding warriors from the far north and west. But those eyes, like worn granite in the midst of a storm, told tales of battles won and lost, blood strewn upon many a field, and bodies tossed aside as so much meat, even the bodies of companions and loved ones. This Caballeran wore not the eyes of a warrior, but the eyes of a man who had seen too much and done too much, a man not broken but only because he no longer recognized any differences between wrong and right.

When the man stepped from the doorway into the street, his cloak flitted to one side revealing a heavy sword hanging from his hip. He took only a few steps before coming to a halt, seeming intent not to block Bayne's path, then tilted his head back as if to get a better view of the big man in the road.

Two other figures appeared in the doorway behind the Caballeran. These two were younger, their faces not as gruff nor their eyes as cold, though their simple garb and broad hats revealed them to be of the older man's clan.

Bayne ignored the two. The old man was nearer, and the others seemed in no hurry to leave the safety of the house.

The older man hitched a thumb around the hilt of his sword. "You would be the one who killed the Gath."

_Gath._ It was a term vaguely familiar to Bayne, and it explained the three youths on the road. Mercenaries from eastern Ursia, young warriors who powdered their faces and clad themselves in black to show their disdain for death. Until today, Bayne had never confronted such fighters. He was not impressed.

To acknowledge the speaker, Bayne nodded to the man. "The Gath sought his own death."

The man grinned, showing straight teeth stained brown. His eyes also grinned, but there was little mirth to be found in those deep orbs. "That is the way of the Gath," he said. "They fear not death, and seek to prove it at every opportunity."

"All men fear death," Bayne said. "Any who says otherwise is lying or insane."

The other man's grin widened as he touched the brim of his hat with a finger. A Caballeran sign of respect, Bayne knew. Two warriors sharing wisdom and respect.

The fellow with the hat glanced over his shoulder to his younger companions. "Plates. Drink."

The two youths disappeared inside.

The Caballeran pointed along the road to a shadowed alleyway between two houses. "Would you do me the honor of lunching with me this day?"

Bayne's eyes narrowed as he gazed at the lane with suspicion.

"I give my word as Masterson, sergeant of the third Caballeran infantry, I will deal you no harm within the confines of our meal."

Bayne believed the man. There was an aura of honor about him despite his steel eyes. Besides, to a Caballeran, dismissing such an invitation would be a great dishonor, and Bayne had no wish this day to shed blood unless there was little choice.

"As you suggest, Masterson." Bayne strode forward heavily, watching the other man as he passed and entered the dim shade of the passage.

A black iron table awaited, its surface a scrollwork of flowers in bloom and birds upon the wing. A pair of matching chairs faced one another across the table, each also of black iron but cushioned with a scarlet pillow.

As he felt was appropriate, Bayne moved to one side and allowed Masterson to approach the opposing seat. Together, facing one another, each man eased onto his own chair, Masterson pausing long enough to remove his wide hat and hang it on the back of his seat, Bayne twisting to one said to allow for the long sword on his back.

A door behind the sergeant screeched open and out walked one of the younger Caballerans, now without cloak and head covering. The young man carried a pewter plate in each hand, atop each plate resting a mass of cooked greens, a slice of what appeared to be grilled chicken and a flour-draped biscuit. The young man placed a plate before each of the sitting men, then returned inside.

Bayne and Masterson continued to stare at one another without moving. Without blinking.

The other young Caballeran, he too uncloaked and hatless, exited the building and placed a pale cloth napkin next to each sitter's plate, then set iron forks and knives on the napkin. He too returned inside the building, but was back momentarily with wooden mugs.

Each man at the table was handed a mug, then the youth was gone.

Bayne sipped his drink. It tasted of apple with a hint of liquor.

Masterson held his mug up between himself and the other warrior. "Caballeran cider. My family's recipe."

"A fine drink," Bayne said, sipping again.

"I'm glad you find it to your liking." Masterson quaffed a drink of the liquid.

They ate in silence. The only sounds were the clinkings of forks and knives against pewter and the distant ring of the wind over the treetops below.

All the while their eyes were upon one another as if wolves sharing a carcass in the dead of winter.

Finally, they were done with their repast.

"Thank you," Bayne said, easing his chair back from the table. "That is the first meal I have had in several days."

Masterson too scooted his chair away from the table. "It is a pleasure to hear."

Both men continued to sit, staring at one another.

"How long since he came through?" Bayne asked.

Masterson seemed to ignore the question. He turned sideways in his chair to glance at the door behind him. "Orrville! Coffee and cigars!"

As if he had been waiting just the other side of the doorway, the taller of the two young Caballerans burst out the entrance with a pewter tray on one hand. He proceeded to place a pair of short tan ceramic mugs onto the table. Next to each of these he placed what appeared to be a brown roll of field leaf.

Masterson nodded to the younger fellow, who paid no mind to those sitting and returned inside.

The Caballeran twisted in his seat so he faced Bayne properly and reached out to retrieve his cigar. He grinned as he bit into one end of the cheroot and spit most of that into the dirt at his feet. He then retrieved a small brass box from a pants pocket, flicked the box open to retrieve a wooden match, snapped the box closed and returned it to its hiding place. He scratched the match on the side of his pants leg. It lit immediately, flaring up bright.

Masterson twisted the cigar in his mouth as he held the flame to the far end of the leaf. He sucked in air and the brown stick belched smoke from its burning end. Holding his breath for a moment, he flipped the match to one side where it died in the dirt, then he exhaled. A ghost of gray fluttered out between his lips and the man smiled again.

Bayne watched all this with much curiosity.

The Caballeran continued to smile as he removed the cigar from his mouth and held it out. "Finest Caballeran smoke weed there is." He used his cigar to point at its twin next to the coffee mug in front of Bayne. "You should give it a try. The coffee, too, though it's only local blend brought up from the fields below."

"Thank you," Bayne said, his hands remaining in his lap, "but you did not answer my question."

Bayne had not accepted the cigar as a gift. Normally this would have been an insult worthy of raising the ire of any Caballeran warrior. A duel would have commenced, a quick and dirty though formal affair that would only end with the death of one man or another. But Bayne had trapped Masterson. Before the offering of the cigar, Bayne had posed a question. He had not received an answer. Under the rules of the Caballeran code, if anyone had been affronted, it was Bayne. Masterson owed an answer.

The older Caballeran appeared to immediately recognize his position. He flicked the end of his cigar to send ash twirling upon the wind, then lay the smoke on the edge of the table.

He tilted his head forward so his eyes faced the ground. "My humblest apologies, good Bayne. I meant no disrespect to yourself." It was the only option available, a sign of Masterson's honor, other than open combat.

Bayne tapped the end of the table and retrieved the cigar, sliding it into his belt. He had accepted the smoke, but had not lit it in the company of the old man. This too was a sign, that the big man had been mollified but was not entirely at ease. It also could have been a sign Bayne did not know the use of a cigar, but Masterson was too polite to make a point of such.

The Caballeran raised his head and stared at the warrior across from him.

"How long since he came through?" Bayne repeated.

"Two days ago," Masterson said. "Riding a black horse. Showed a bag of gold. Promised it to the man who would kill you."

"Do you plan to collect?"

Masterson did not blink. "I do."

"You have an odd way of killing a man," Bayne said.

"How do you know the food was not poisoned?"

"You know of me," Bayne said, "so you must know poison would do little good."

Masterson gave a slight nod. "True enough."

Bayne waved a hand over the remains of their repast. "Then why this meal? The coffee and cigar?"

"I like to know a man before I slay him."

Bayne eased back in his chair and slid out of the seat, standing next to the table. "Do we do this here? Or in the street?"

Slowly and with caution, keeping his hands nowhere near his sword, Masterson took to his feet. He retrieved his hat from the back of the chair and placed it atop his head. "My manners would be remiss if I were to face you here after we have shared a meal. No. You are safe from me and mine as long as you remain in town. Once you take to the open road again, then you are fair game."

For the first time in many a day, Bayne's lips curved into a smile. "That would seem to give me impetus to stay in the village."

Masterson returned the grin. "Or you could join us. Within the ranks of the Caballeran infantry, no assassins would dare approach you."

"You honor me," Bayne said.

"It would be an honor to have you among us."

"Alas, I cannot commit," Bayne said. "My destiny lies elsewhere."

"It is the least I could offer under the circumstances," Masterson said. "You have shown yourself worthy."

"And you have shown yourself to be an honorable man," Bayne said. "I hope you will not hold it against me when I stand over your corpse."

The eyes of the Caballeran turned to ice. "We shall see."

Bayne turned away, his muscular legs leading him back toward the center of town.

"Warrior!"

Bayne glanced over his shoulder to Masterson.

"Beware," the Caballeran counseled. "There are still Gath in wait for you. And a group of Ashalites are about, likely with a wish to weigh themselves down with gold."

"My thanks," Bayne said, saluting with a finger to an eyebrow.

"No thanks are needed," Masterson said. "I just don't want them to kill you before I have my opportunity."

Then the Caballeran chuckled.

Bayne let loose with his own lusty guffaw, then headed back to the streets, leaving the older warrior and his honorable ways behind.

The air of the town square felt different than before. An unseen aura of menace lay upon the atmosphere. Bayne felt many eyes upon him, eyes with no good intentions.

He looked over his shoulder once more, but found Masterson no longer there. The Caballeran's cigar still burned on the edge of the table.

Movement. Out of the corner of his eye.

Bayne swung back upon the square.

An addition had come to the scene, a youth in black leathers reclined upon stone steps in an open doorway across the square. The boy's hair dripped like ink into his eyes and his face was the powdered white of a whore. His right elbow propped him up against the steps while his left hand played with a dagger, flipping the blade into the air, catching it, twirling it around his fingers, playing, playing, playing with danger.

The Gath had not been there a moment before. Fast, he was.

Without moving his eyes, Bayne allowed the sides of his vision to tell him the story. Another of the Gath stood in an open window above the one sitting on the steps. Two more tried to hide behind flimsy curtains of the same house on the ground floor.

As a group they were nervous, though the one outside was trying his best to not appear so.  
Bayne approached, stopping mere yards from the relaxed youth with the dagger flying about his hands.

The knife stopped, the weapon's handle tight in the boy's grip. "You killed Neil." He didn't look up.

"If you mean the cur who accosted me on my approach to town," Bayne said, "then you are correct."

"You shouldn't have done that."

"He shoved a blade into my chest," Bayne said. "He struck first. He lost."

The Gath glanced up. "I see no wound."

"You wouldn't."

The dagger slid into a slim leather sheath on the youth's belt. "And why would that be?"

"I heal."

The boy slapped his gloved hands together as if knocking away dust, then he sprang to his feet. The motion was swift and balanced, like a mountain cat, the balls of his moccasined feet touching ground first, his arching legs and back straightening above. He came up facing the large, muscular warrior in the chain shirt, the lad's dark head only as high as the big man's chest.

"Think it through," Bayne warned.

The boy didn't.

He lunged. A short blade hidden in a hand springing forward and stabbing. Missing.

Bayne dove to one side, instincts taking the place of logic.

A shattered window. Tumbling glass falling and breaking further.

A crossbow bolt smacked into the ground, cracking into two pieces next to the downed warrior.

The youth with the knife dropped to a knee, his weapon gripped over handed and swinging down from above. Bayne rolled to one side and kicked out, a boot connecting with the Gath's chin and sending the lad sprawling.

The two from behind the curtains charged out of the house, each with a rapier aimed for the chain-clad warrior. Bayne jumped to his feet, another bolt from the window above slamming into the dirt where he had just lain.

He had no time to draw his sword, the two rapirists upon him too quickly. One stabbed. Bayne grabbed the long blade with a hand and snapped the other palm onto steel, snapping the weapon in two. The other Gath slashed in from the side, his metal raking against Bayne's link shirt.

The one with the knife was on his feet again. He sprang between his two comrades and thrust with his dagger. Bayne jammed the broken end of a rapier into the youth's left eye, bringing a splash of red and squeals like that of a dying pig before the lad dropped.

The two Gath still standing seemed in shock at their leader's fate, their jaws dropping and their eyes as big as coins.

All backed off as the one who lost his eye squirmed and screamed on the ground, sending blood spraying around his entwining form in the dust of the street as he clutched at his face.

Bayne slid back and unsheathed his heavy sword.

A crossbow bolt slammed into his chest. The head of the arrow sank deep beneath his chain shirt, sending links flying. Bayne took no notice.

He jumped forward, landing with both feet on the back of the bleeding Gath. The breath burst from the dying youth's lips and he could scream no more as air fled his lungs and his spine snapped.

Bayne lashed out with his sword. A hand gripping a rapier fell to the ground. Again the warrior swung out his blade. This time an arm dropped.

Blood flowed down the street. Young men screamed for their mothers and died in a shivering heap.

Bayne burst through the door into the building from where the Gath had come. The crossbowman still awaited upstairs. Bayne thundered across a foyer of plank floors with dark beams for walls, blood dripping from along the lengths of his sword.

A bloody sight brought him up short. Lined on the floor next to a darkened hearth lay three bodies, a man, a woman and a girl of no more than six years. A family. All were garbed in simple muslin. All wore a red line crossing beneath their chins.

A curse from above drew Bayne's attention to wooden stairs leading up. A roar as from a lion ripped out the warrior's throat as he assaulted the steps three at a time.

At the top was a closed door. He hesitated not, kicking and bursting through with his sword swishing before him.

A familiar Gath youth, one of the survivors from the road, was huddled on the floor, a large arbalest fumbling in his hands. It was a heavy weapon with a strong pull and the boy was in too much of a hurry trying to wind back the weapon's crank to reload another dart.

Bayne bound forward screaming, his sword in two hands over his head.

The youth tossed his crossbow to one side and skidded back on the floor beneath the shattered window. "Don't kill me! Don't kill me!"

Steel chopped flesh to be buried in the wood of the floor.

The Gath died with a gurgle and a sigh.

Bayne planted a boot on the body's chest and tugged his weapon free, trickling scarlet and leaving bits of gray lung caked along the sword. The warrior leaned down and wiped his blade clean on the pants of the youth.

A cry from outside.

Bayne leapt to the window. A story below, a Gath stood looking upon the three bodies of his compatriots. Though he could only see a corner of the youth's face, Bayne recognized him as the last of those from the road.

Bayne jumped.

And landed on his feet, his sword lashing out in search of vengeance.

The last Gath had luck, however, as Bayne's sword found only empty air. The clamor of Bayne's landing, all that chain rattling and the thudding of the warrior's weight onto packed soil, sent the boy running in fear.

Bayne pursued.

Across the village square they loped, prey and predator, the big man gaining on the shorter, lighter boy in black.

With a glance behind, the Gath saw death only moments away in the steel eyes of his follower. Seeking escape, the youth spun on a heel and darted between two of the village buildings.

Only to find himself in a cul de sac. A wall of timber faced him.

He spun back upon his fate.

Bayne had stopped. He stood there, a trickle of red running down his chest from the arrow still protruding there. His sword was tight in a fist but hanging at his side, dripping gore and grime into the dirt.

"I never hurt anyone!" The boy begged. He had nothing else to do. "I wasn't truly a Gath. I just wore black to be among them. I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

Bayne let his sword fall to the ground. He had no need of it here. He stepped forward, within reaching distance.

The lad winced.

"You were an imposter, then," Bayne said. It was not a question.

The boy nodded. "I wasn't one of them."

"You were a mimic," Bayne went on, "a pretender, a poseur."

The boy nodded faster and faster, his head bobbing on his neck like a chicken at feed. "Yes, yes. I'm no Gath. I'm a farm boy from western Ursia."

Bayne pointed at the rapier strapped to the youth's belt. "You are also a hypocrite."

He wrenched the arrow from his chest, once more sending chain links and slivers of flesh flying, then jabbed out, stabbing the boy in the neck, burying the arrow's head deep.

The youth shrieked like a murdered rabbit.

Bayne stabbed again. And again. And again. Each stab brought a new spray of blood, covering the youth in red and spraying Bayne's front.

With each blow, the youth's hoarse throat gave out another yelp and cry. He screamed for his parents, for his home, for a girl he'd once loved. He screamed for God.

In the end, he died in a bloody heap with a cracked arrow projecting from the mess of flesh and muscle that had once been his throat. The wounds were so garish his head was nearly separated from the trunk of his body.

Standing over the chaos and disarray of killing, Bayne's breaths came in sharp gasps. It was the hardest he had breathed in days, even after all his walking and climbing up the side of the mountain. He glared down at the bloody remains of the youth. There were no signs of peace in the warrior's eyes.

Bayne spat, his white phlegm spotting the ground near the dead boy's head. "Don't wear yourself like an outlaw and expect to be treated differently."

The clamor of two hands clapping brought Bayne around.

Blocking the exit from the alley was a line of six men wrapped in sandy muslin from head to toe as if in burial shrouds. Atop their heads were many wrappings, all white but for the man clapping who wore a headdress of dusty scarlet. Even these men's faces were covered but for the eyes. Skin tanned by a desert sun was revealed about those black eyes and on bare hands. About their waists were thick hide belts glinting with bronze, tulwars and scimitars hanging.

These men in their white garb were known to Bayne. They were Ashalites from Pursia, an offshoot branch of a young cult, warriors who spread their beliefs with the edge of a sword.

The one clapping stopped and strode forward.

"Your punishment is harsh but just," he said, bowing his head slightly while keeping his eyes on the big man before him. "Thanks be to Ashal for your strength and courage of conviction."

Bayne grimaced. "Ashal had nothing to do with it. And there was little just about it. They were paid to kill me. I killed them."

The leader of the Ashalites waved a hand to the brutalized mess at Bayne's feet. "Surely this slaying was a fitting punishment for one of evil."

The breathing finally came easier to Bayne. He took in a great gulp of air and scratched at his chest to remove the blood drying there. As earlier in the day, his body bore no signs of a wound.

With a boot he prodded the corpse at his feet. "Whether good or evil is of little interest to me. He was stupid, and that got him killed. He never should have joined with a band of Gath."

"You have no interest in good and evil?" the leader asked.

Bayne shook his head. "Why should I? Men know the difference down in their souls."

"Men know good and evil because Ashal described it to them."

"I trust not your book."

"Blasphemy."

Bayne shrugged. "Reasoning."

"Ashal tells us --"

"From what I have heard, Ashal was a man," Bayne said, "though a remarkable one. He walked among other men and healed them. Whether he was a god or not, I do not know. Whether god exists, I do not know. But it will take more than the word of men such as you to sway me."

The leader of the Ashalites snapped forth a hand and pointed at Bayne. "Here I believed you worthy of entwining with our host. Beware yourself, Bayne kul Kanon, named for a demon, as you tread dangerous ground. We are here as a righteous cause to bring all under Ashal's will!"

"Killing in the name of a god, any god, is detestable," Bayne said, "and I was mistaken to believe you were here for a sorcerer's gold."

The leader whipped forth his tulwar.

Bayne stepped toward his own dropped weapon.

"Do not touch that sword if you wish to live!"

Bayne glanced up. His lips barely moved. "Very well. I do not need it."

The leader of the zealots grimaced. "You think we fear you? We fear not death! We have been promised bliss!"

"Fine," Bayne said. "At least I'll no longer have to hear your blathering on this side of death's veil."

"You mock us!" the priest roared.

"Say hello to your god," Bayne said.

The warrior sprang.

The attack was a surprise to the Pursians. It never entered their minds an unarmed man would do such.

He did. And the Pursians were in disarray.

Bayne reached the chief first, the Ashalite swinging his arms as he tried to backpedal. Bayne snatched the man by the throat and squeezed. The spine cracked and cartilage crushed, Bayne tossed aside his lifeless foe.

Another Ashalite sliced with a sword, his bronze blade raking against chain before he too was grabbed, this time by the face. Bayne's thumb dug in below the chin and two of his fingers found eye sockets. He squeezed. The Ashalite's face imploded as if an overripe fruit caught in the clutches of a giant. Flesh, blood, bone, cartilage and muscle collapsed in upon itself. There was a scream. Then the gory chaos that had been a man fell away.

By this time the remaining four Pursians had gathered their wits. Their companions' deaths had been gruesome, but these were men experienced in war and terror. They were not shocked easily and overcame their fear to launch a counter attack.

Two sliced at Bayne from opposing sides. One blade was knocked away by the flat of the big man's hand. The other sword sliced against an arm, leaving a long cut that bled. The other two zealots advanced directly, thrusting with their scimitars.

Bayne twisted to one side and kicked out, connecting with a man's wrist and sending a sword flying. The other Ashalite in front swung up with his weapon, coming from below for his opponent's groin. Bayne was fast again, spinning to his other side and catching the blade against a leg. This wound too was long but shallow, tearing a gash along his pants.

The swordless Ashalite screamed in the tongue of his native land and dove at his foe. Bayne caught him with both hands, lifted the fellow high and threw him at the others.

Four warriors went tumbling in a pile.

Bayne dropped to a knee and retrieved his sword.

Then he stood and remained in place. He had yet to take or give an inch

Fumbling amongst themselves, the four were soon enough on their feet. All again hefted long blades, but now they were wary, moving in with caution.

Bayne's unblinking eyes focused on a spot in the middle of the group.

With a shout, the men charged, all attacking at once. Four long, curving blades swept in at Bayne from four directions. One sword missed entirely due to its wielder's fervor, driven over the large warrior's head. Two other blades were knocked aside by a sweep of Bayne's own steel.

The fourth sword could not be avoided. Bayne slung up an arm as a shield. The enemy's sword bit deep, driving through flesh and striking with a metallic ringing against the bone. But that bone held, and Bayne's arm remained true despite the new wound.

Surprised once more at their foe's strength, the four Ashalites drew back.

Bayne done playing with these fanatical warriors. He jumped at them, slashing from left to right with a wide sweep of his heavy sword. Steel sliced cloth and flesh, spilling a man's intestines as if a live serpent escaping his stomach to seek a home in the dirt.

Another Ashalite tried to sidestep Bayne's swinging death, but he tread in the gory mess that had once been a friend's face and slipped to the ground. His tulwar went spinning away. Bayne stomped on the fallen man's ankle, shattering bone beneath flesh and bringing a roar of pain. Bayne finished him with a slice across the throat.

The surviving two Ashalites fell back further, now out of the alleyway and into the center of the town. Bayne followed at a run. One man turned to flee. The other brought up his scimitar. Again, Bayne swung out wide with his weapon. Two heads dropped to the earth. Two neck stumps sprouted blood. Two bodies fell into the dirt.

Bayne paused to stare about at the destruction he had wrought throughout the village. An observer might have thought that steady gaze held pride, but it was not true. It was also not true those eyes were gripped by sorrow. If anything, Bayne's gray orbs revealed an essence of completion. A task had been done, a bloody task that should not befall any man. Only fools would kill for gold, and only the deranged would kill for divinity. Such men might not deserve the fate Bayne had meted out that day, but it was they who had sought their own demise. They had had a choice, and they choose poorly.

Bayne sighed. He stepped away from the gore that littered the street, the bottoms of his boots leaving a splotch of red with every step he took. Slowly, moving his way to the edge of town near the road where he had originally entered, his eyes and mind followed the conflict that had occurred over the last hour. Gath lay dead near one house. Ashalites were piled together near the entrance to the cul de sac. Another Gath and two more of the fanatics rested in bloody pools inside the stoppered alley.

He blinked, then leaned down to grip a handful of dust from the road. He sprinkled the dry grit along the flats of his sword, watching the dust clump together the blood along the blade's edges. With a rag taken from his belt, he smeared the weapon clean. He dropped the rag at his feet, adding more blood to the scene.

Bayne then slid the sword into its dark home on his back.

He glanced around. There was nothing living to see. He listened. The only noise was that of distant birds whistling among the trees further down the mountain. His tongue tasted of dust and bile. His nose was filled with copper. His skin was chill.

He showed no signs of being wounded, and what blood sheathed his clothing was little of his own.

There was no need to remain. Bayne walked across the town's center, heading toward the exit between two of the village buildings. He soon enough came to the road again, this time layered in red, worn, cracked bricks from another age.

A rock-toss away stood three men, Masterson and the two younger Caballerans. The old man seemed more ancient than before, his skin the color of ash and hanging from his face in folds. But each of the three stood planted, Masterson at the point of a triangle. Gray cloaks floated behind the three, and each gripped a long sword in his hands.

"You do not have to do this," Bayne offered.

"Yes, yes I do," was the reply.

"You have witnessed my strength here today," Bayne said. "Does that not give you pause?"

"Boys." It was one word, a simple word.

The two young men moved around their leader and stomped forward, swords extended.

Bayne backed a step. "Masterson! Stop this foolishness!"

The sergeant said not a word and the two Caballerans continued forward. Grins of daring and assuredness lay about the young men's faces.

Bayne cursed. And then the two were upon him. One swung high, the other low. Bayne stepped into the men, so close their weapons would do little harm. He snapped out a flat palm, striking a chin with a crack and sending a youth tumbling back. Bayne's other hand chopped out, connecting with a wrist. There was a yelp of pain and a Caballeran sword dropped to the road.

The disarmed mercenary drew forth a long knife with his good hand. Bayne grabbed the weapon hand and squeezed, crushing knuckles against the knife's bone handle. The youth screamed again.

The other of the pair was on his feet again, shaking his head as if to clear his sight.

Bayne drew back his free arm and stared into the pain-filled eyes of the youth with whom he grappled. The boy was straining, trying to pull his pulped hand away from the bigger man. Bayne punched him square in the face, breaking the nose and splattering blood. The head snapped back and to one side in an unnatural position.

Bayne let the boy drop.

The other swordsman was suddenly there, swinging his lengthy blade down from upon high.

Bayne slapped his hands together overhead, catching the blade only inches from his face. The Caballeran tugged on his weapon. It would not move. Bayne held the steel in a grip as strong as a vice.

Once more, a Caballeran went for a knife at his belt.

Bayne flipped the long sword around in the air, catching it with one hand, and lashed out. The cutting edge sank into flesh, nearly beheading the youth.

Bayne kicked out. The dead mercenary fell away. Bayne dropped the borrowed weapon. And looked up to find Masterson had remained motionless.

The old Caballeran continued to stand with his boots slightly apart, his sword gripped in two hands out from his chest. Where before there had been a tiredness to his eyes, now there was anguish. The corners of his orbs glistened with tears.

"They were your sons," Bayne said.

Masterson nodded.

"It did not have to be this way," Bayne said. "You could have allowed me free passage."

"No," Masterson said. "That was not an option."

"Your sense of pride is too strong."

Masterson nodded again. "Perhaps. Or my sense of honor."

Furrows grew above Bayne's eyes. "Do not allow your manners to conceal your bloodlust. You are no better than the Gath, and your posturing sickens me."

"Regardless," Masterson went on, "it would seem my weaknesses have slain all I held dear."

A silence settled between the two. It was an uneasy quiet, filled not with determination, anger and hate as is often the case with harbingers of violence. Instead, this quiet spoke of an ending that had gathered slowly over years, like the death of an old one sick and alone at home in bed.

Eyes traded more than glances across the short distance. Bayne's eyes spoke of hard knowledge, but of an uncertainty of the future and the past. Masterson's gaze told a different tale, a weary tale. The Caballeran had seen much in his many days, but most of it was of cruelty and harshness and death.

The distant wails of wind scratching along the sides of the mountain ruined the silence.

"Before you slay me, I would have a question," Masterson said.

"Ask."

"This rider you follow, the one who would have you slain, why do you chase him?"

The wind's torrent built in power, moaning along the rents and rocks of the mountain. The very crags and cliffs seemed to want to shutter Bayne from speaking further.

But Bayne held to no superstitions. He would speak. "The man has answers I seek."

"Very well," Masterson spoke, tightening the grip on his sword. "I asked but for a single answer. You provided."

"Ask further," Bayne said. "I have no wish to speed your death."

Masterson's eyes narrowed and dried. "I have witnessed your skill and strength, but mayhap this old dog has tricks of which you've never witnessed."

"Do not be a fool," Bayne said. "You know who I am. That has been the problem since I entered the village."

"What do you mean?"

"There would have been no gathering of mercenaries if I had not been the prize."

"A bag of gold speaks much," the Caballeran said.

Bayne scoffed. "This was no contest over mere gold, old man. You know this, as do I. The Gath, the Pursians, even yourself and your kin, all were here in hopes of bringing down the mighty Bayne. This was a contest to decide who was the strongest. It was a foolish game, a contest of cultures."

Masterson's eyes narrowed further until they were slits. "How so?"

"All men die," Bayne said. "It matters little how strong their arm, how mighty their feats, how high they are held in esteem. It matters little from which nation they come. Gath, Caballerans, Ashalites, all can be fine warriors, but all die. Warriors, soldiers, kings and emperors alike. Training and experience help to extend that life, to protect it, but eventually we are placed beneath the stones and the dirt. Seeking death early is the highest form of audacity."

Now Masterson's eyes widened. "Perhaps seeking death is all that is left to some of us after a lifetime of butchery."

Bayne glanced back to the village, the two-story houses he had left but minutes earlier. Streams of smoke no longer rolled above the chimneys.

"You may speak truth," he said, "or at least a truth for yourself. But that is no excuse for the killings of innocents. I witnessed a family carved unto death within one of the village homes. Would you deny Caballerans are guilty of such?"

Masterson shook his head. "I would not. It is customary when mercenaries roll into a foreign town. It is cleansed."

"It is laziness," Bayne spoke. "Easier to slay those who might rise up against you than to treat them civilly. There is no honor in that. Honor is found among brothers who stand beside one another, but this can not be found when you butcher all who could be your brethren. You are left with nothing but honoring yourself, and that is narcissism."

The old man's eyes grew befuddled. He appeared uncertain of further words.

"Do you have more questions?" Bayne asked.

"This rider you follow," Masterson said. "Who is he?"

"Verkanus."

"The emperor?"

Bayne nodded.

"He is dead."

"Only rumor," Bayne said. "His body was never recovered. He fled to the desert after the final battle against Trode."

A grim smile crinkled Masterson's face. "The powerful mage finally met his match with the Trodans, eh?"

"After three battles," Bayne said, "the final one decisive."

"You seek revenge, then?"

"No," Bayne tried to explain. "I seek answers."

"To what?" Masterson asked. "You were said to be one of his generals, one of his strongest assassins. You stood alone against hordes and wiped them away with a swing of your sword."

"He... he brought me into being," Bayne said.

"What?"

"It was the final conflict with Trode," Bayne went on. "He summoned me from... elsewhere... and used me against his foes."

"Then what answers do you chase?"

"Who I am. What I am."

"What you are? You are a man, plain and simple, as any other."

Bayne shook his head. "No. I have not the same... requirements... as other men. I need little rest and sustenance, though I can enjoy both. I have found my thoughts are not the same as other men. I am not as distracted as they when it comes to connections to this world."

"What are you speaking of? I understand not your words, warrior."

"Your clans. Your gods. Your links to other men. I have them not, nor do I wish them. If anything, I see them as distractions."

"Distractions to what?" Masterson asked.

"To life itself. To a sane mind."

Masterson used his sword to point at one of his dead sons, then to the other. "You would consider these distractions?"

"Only if you allow them to be."

"And have I?"

"You have."

"Then let me be distracted no further."

The Caballeran strode forward.

A fist smashed into the old man's face.

Masterson dropped to his knees, the sword plummeting.

Bayne hit again. And again. And again.

The downed mercenary no longer wore a face. His features were flattened, looking like a butchered side of beef. With a last gasp that forced a red bubble between the crushed slash of his mouth, Masterson fell over on his side. Dead. Unmoving. No more.
Chapter III: The Tavern

The following morning was a bright one. The sun ruled high in the heavens above ochre wisps of clouds. Short-billed swallows snatched at insects in the air above the mountain's sides. A gentle wind beat at the trees below the peaks, washing the leaves of dust and the smallest of crawling creatures.

Blood had dried to a dark cake in the streets and alleys of the village, and two dozen humps of dirt now lined the sides of the road leading away from the town.

It had taken Bayne the rest of a day and most of a night to haul the bodies of the villagers and of those he had slain outside the circle of buildings. Finding a shovel had been an easy enough task as each of the houses had been well spirited with domestic tools, reminding the warrior that families had lived here, families who had planted flowers and dug up gardens and grown their own food and sewed their own clothes.

The amount of digging might have broken another man, but Bayne held reserves unavailable to others. An hour before the sun would rise across the green horizon to the East, the shovel's head patted the last of the dirt onto the last of the graves.

Then Bayne returned the shovel to where he had found it in a shed next to one of the houses.

Next came a bath of cold water in a tub, this too found in a back room of one of the houses. The water was provided by an indoors well pump. The powdered soap and towels were provided by a cupboard in a kitchen that would likely see little use in the near future.

The grime and sweat of the night's work cleansed from his body, Bayne went to work washing his few clothes in a wooden bucket with a scrub board and more of the powdered soap. After hanging the clothes on a line in a yard, he retired to an empty bedroom where he lay in the nude for an hour. It was all the rest he needed.

Soon enough he was clothed again. His fortune still strong, he lucked upon a bottle of oil, a can of grease and a copper-wired brush in the cabinet where he had found the soap and towels. The next hour he spent grinding grit and dirt and dried blood from his chain shirt and weapons. The half hour after that he spent in oiling down his armor and weapons. A sleeveless doublet padded with goose feathers was discovered hanging in a bedroom and made a fine new shirt to go beneath his chain.

It was late morning when he walked out of a village house and closed the door behind him. He stood in the center of the small town and glanced about from door to door. The birds no longer sounded and the wind was still. The place was like a crypt.

Bayne shook his head and turned, walking out of the village without another look back. Why he had taken the time and gone to the effort to bury those he had not known and those he had slain was unknown even to Bayne himself. His lips would remain silent on the matter, and no one would ever know to ask.

The road ahead meandered its way around the mountainside, taking the warrior above the roofs of the village and the smokeless chimneys. The trees along the ground were further away and their verdant insignia no longer held the bright green of health but a darker green, sickly in appearance and almost smoggy. Still, the day ahead was bright and could have been cheerful if not for the blood of the day past and the stoic visage worn by Bayne.

At times the road was bricked in scarlet and tan, other times it was packed earth. In a few short stretches the path turned to gravel and sometimes sand. But always the road bore on, curving along through the gray rock and the nettles. The cliff to Bayne's right drove up and up, broken in many places by shadow and crags before becoming invisible in the clouds high above. The drop to the left was straight and dire, though occasionally the plunge was less severe and broken by boulders and brush and sometimes a rare tree.

It was a sparse trail that rose gradually without causing a man to work too hard, leaving him free to gather his thoughts and to forecast hopes and dreams and fears of the future. But Bayne was always silent. If he hoped or dreamed or feared, he kept it locked within. He was not one to talk aloud to himself, nor did his steady gaze show deep, interlocked workings behind the eyes.

Silent, and perhaps morose, he walked on.

His path twined its way around the mountain in a continual bend, and it felt to the wandering warrior as if he had been walking, marching, forever on the trail of the mage who could provide him answers. Bayne supposed that long walk had begun truly the day he had come into existence some ten years earlier. Existence? Perhaps that was not the right word. Wakefulness might be more appropriate. At least he could remember nothing before that day of battle.

And it had seemed his existence had been filled with war and death since, though usually not of his own choosing. Whether that was his fate or dire circumstance, Bayne would not hazard a guess, though he mostly had come to accept whatever lay along his route.

Today that route brought him to a tavern.

Around another bend the warrior plodded, coming to a halt to stare at the three-storied wooden structure against the side of the mountain ahead and to his right. The building seemed little more than a façade, sticking out from the side of the mountain as if the interior itself must slink back into the stone. The main portion of the building was stained and tottering, giving the place an appearance of creaking age. But the place seemed in no threat of falling apart or crumbling mainly due to its solid base of large rocks and gray mortar. At some point someone had tried to add a bit of color to the establishment, having painted the closed shutters of the multiple windows a green, but that green had faded with time and was no longer a signature of happier times but a sad reminder of days long past and forgotten.

Out front was a stone stoop with three slate steps leading up to the entrance. To the right and left were hitching posts where a half dozen steeds were lined in front of a watering trough.  
Multiple chimneys, two coming straight out of the mountain behind and above the building, belched multi-colored smokes. Reds and greens and yellows smoldered their way higher into the sky along a path like that of a rambling snail.

The road itself, here compacted earth, widened and wound to the left of the place and apparently continued along the side of the mountain. A sign post was planted near the middle of the road in front of the building's entrance. The hanging sign read "The Knotted Mesh."

A tavern, then, as Bayne had suspected.

He trod forward. Though his constitution was beyond that of all mortal men he had encountered, he knew better than to tire himself thin. Besides, Bayne possibly could learn more of his quarry.

He pushed his way through the darkened rosewood door with the brass fittings and a central stained-glass window that portrayed a spider sitting at the center of a web. Inside, his senses were assaulted from all sides. Darkness held sway here, but tiny flashes of yellows and oranges and blues and greens and reds and purples and millions upon millions of colors common and uncommon flashed and blinked from corners of the room, top and bottom and all around. A dull smoke hung about the place, adding to the perception of gloom that the multitude of colors could not destroy. Dull odors lingered about the long chamber that stretched forth, the smells sometimes stinging at the nose and other times leaving behind a sweet numbing. A chillness permeated the place, raising bumps along Bayne's bare arms.

It was difficult to see through all the gloom. Bayne closed the door behind him in hopes killing the day's bright would allow his eyes to adjust all that much sooner.

Before him stretched a long hall, a fine wooden bar stretching the length of the left wall back into the shadows of the establishment that indeed did run into the mountainside. Far into the mountainside. Bayne could not make out a far wall. Oil lanterns hung from sconces every dozen steps along the walls providing the only steady light, and even that pale beneath the haze and fugue of the place. Along the right wall were row after row of round tables, two chairs to a table, and these too stretched back into the dark. Bayne could make out a railed stairway some distance back on his right that appeared to lead up to a balcony that extended the length of the second floor; up there, too, were more and more of the round tables with pairs of chairs.

Bayne blinked and noted the bar on his left sported a mirrored backing that ran the length of the bar, or so he supposed since he could not see the far end of the bar and it and the mirror stretched back and back and back into the nothing that was the back of the tavern.

Despite a relative calm and quiet that lingered, the only few sounds being clinkings of glass and bottles behind the bar and the occasional scuffling of a chair being moved across the stone floor, The Knotted Mesh was not an empty place.

The denizens were seated individually, one at each of the tables, none at the bar and none together. They were nearly all male and came in all sizes and shades, most dressed in robes and cloaks though a few sported garb with more of a dash to it like that of the wealthier folk in cities. Nearly all were young, having seen perhaps only a score of summers each. None appeared to wear weaponry other than the occasional dagger or knife.

In front of these quiet, seated faces came the flashing lights of many colors. Pinks, purples, reds, yellows, greens, blues of every shade. Hues representing the whole of the rainbow and perhaps beyond winked in and out in miniature strobes before the faces of those seated at the tables. What appeared to produce these illuminations were gems floating in the space above the tabletops. At some tables a single gem hovered, the size of a man's fist. At other tables, multiple precious rocks hung upon the air, circling about one another and dipping and diving. The gems themselves rotated in their colors, rarely staying the same tint for longer than a few seconds.

The stares of those seated were fastened upon the floating gems as if enthralled, as if looking into the face of a god and finding great, mysterious wonders laid out for all to see and know.

Bayne did not know what to make of all this. It was something beyond his ken.

"Welcome, sir." It was a soft voice to one side, opposite the bar.

Bayne turned to find a middle-aged fellow staring up at him. The man wore short-cropped dark hair above a pale silken shirt, black padded breeches and leather boots that rose up to his knees. He was obviously a tradesman of some sort, likely a well-to-do tradesman considering the newness, freshness and probable cost of his simple clothing. Though not dressed as a noble or the like, he was clearly of a better station in life than the average man.

Bayne just stared at him.

The fellow seemed to ignore the blankness of that stare. "What will be your pleasure this day, sir?"

Bayne blinked.

"Sir?"

"What is this place?" Bayne asked.

The man smiled. "This is The Knotted Mesh, sir."

"A name that signifies nothing to me."

"Ah." A spark of understanding came into the stranger's eyes. "This is a tavern, of sorts, specializing in gathering facts, messaging and erudition."

Bayne's eyebrows arched in befuddlement. "A spy network?"

"No, sir." The fellow chuckled. "The Knotted Mesh is not in operation for any particular government, guild or association. If any such organizations wish to keep particular information... undisclosed... then it is their privilege. However, sometimes those who venture into this establishment attempt to retrieve such information regardless, and they are usually dealt with by the proper authorities of whichever --"

"Your establishment?"

"Yes, sir." The man nodded. "I am the founder of The Knotted Mesh."

"And you are?"

"Ah." The man's smile broadened. He gave a curt bow. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Algr Tessenan. My patrons generally refer to me as Algr."

Bayne nodded. "Greetings."

"As I was saying," Algr went on, "whenever there is a break in protocol, I myself on rare occasions have to --"

Bayne shook his head. "Algr, I still do not understand. You say this is a place for knowledge, yet I see no scrolls nor scribes."

It did not seem possible, but the tavern keeper's grin grew wider, nearly from ear to ear. "This is a place of magic, sir."

"Magic?"

"Yes, sir."

Bayne nodded. "Then a man I pursue possibly stopped here."

"Many stop here, sir."

"Wore all black," Bayne said. "Rode a black horse. Long dark hair with a stripe of white running through."

The light of recognition glistened in Algr's eyes. "Ah, yes, that would have been three days ago."

"I've lost a day on him," Bayne muttered more to himself than the tavern keeper. "That village held me too long."

"He promised riches to anyone who would slay the man following him," Algr said.

Bayne's eyes hardened as he dug his thumbs into his belt. "And would you try to collect, Algr?"

"Goodness, no," the man said with a bark of laughter. "I'm no warrior. And a man would have to be a fool to try to take on the formidable Bayne kul Kanon. Your repute is known wide and far, good sir, as well as the recent events further down the mountainside."

"How would you know such?" Bayne asked. "I have but arrived from the village, and there were no riders or other travelers who passed me."

"As I said," Algr said, waving a hand to point out the surroundings, "this is a place of knowledge and communication. It is a simple task to learn of recent events anywhere throughout the world."

Bayne grimaced, seeming unconvinced.

"If you wish, I can show you how to use our apparatus," Algr offered.

"What good would this do me?"

"You could look in on the doings of the one you follow."

Bayne allowed this to sink in. Verkanus was now three days ahead of him, ever climbing upward on the mountain path. Verkanus was also horsed. Bayne had little chance of catching up to the mage and former emperor unless he could find a more direct path through the peaks. Knowledge could also warn Bayne of snares and hindrances Verkanus might lay upon the road.

" Does one need to be a wizard?" Bayne asked.

"Ah, no."

The muscled warrior nodded. "Very well, Algr. Show me your tricks and I will see what I will see."

The tavern owner turned, motioning Bayne to follow, then lead the way deeper into the shadows of The Knotted Mesh. They moved quietly through the gloom, past tables of bleary-eyed youth staring endlessly into the floating, colored rocks that danced above tables. It seemed to Bayne they walked for some good while, passing table after table, with the bar continuously extending along the left wall. The mirror behind the bar also extended, apparently infinitely, following the big man and the smaller man and reflecting their dim images back at them. Every so often a mug or glass, sometimes empty and sometimes not, rested atop the bar though there were never any patrons at hand to partake. There also appeared to be no one behind the bar, as if Algr ran the place on his own.

Finally the man in silk came to a halt. He stood next to the only table Bayne had witnessed that did not have someone seated before it. Resting on the center of the round wooden table, and noticeably not hanging in the air above, was a yellow crystal the size of a fist.

Bayne stopped and stared down at Algr's offering. "How does this work?"

Algr motioned toward a chair next to the table. "Be seated and grasp the gem in both hands."

Bayne's brow rose in skepticism.

"Your mind will be free to travel wherever you wish," Algr said in way of further explanation. "It will happen in an instance. You will be transported to another place of your own choosing. From there, you may see and learn whatever you wish."

Bayne glanced up and down the long room, his eyes lingering on the dulled faces of those at other tables.

Algr noticed the glance. "The experience can be quite intoxicating. There are many who spend their free moments abandoning the outer world for that of the inner."

Bayne sat, the wooden chair creaking beneath his heavy weight. He stared at the yellow orb on the table. "How do I return?"

"Ah. Simply wish it, and it will happen."

Hard eyes glared up at the tavern owner. "If this should be some trick --"

Algr laughed. "Nothing of the sorts, good sir. What would I have to gain?"

"A bag of gold," Bayne said. Then his hands clasped the yellow gem.

An explosion of light poured over the big man as a brightness that hurt the eyes and came in streaks like arrows flying past. Bayne felt as if catapulted, his body soaring higher and higher through nothingness, the darkness and depths of The Knotted Mesh and its dreary denizens left far behind and him on the wing as fast as a comet racing toward the sun. He blinked though it did little good; the illumination raining around him was much too prevailing for mere eyelids to shield.

Bayne imagined it must be like a form of madness. He saw nothing but a billion stars zipping past. He felt nothing but a slight chill to the skin. He could smell nothing, nor hear anything.

Until... there was a roar not unlike that of thousands upon thousands cheering their displeasure in a coliseum. The thousands upon thousands witnessing a bloody spectacle, a duel to the death.

But it was all in the hearing. There was still no vision, no sight of anything but the light and the light and more of the light.

It came to a standstill.

Bayne was no longer racing through unknown heavens. He found himself standing in the middle of a cobbled road in a city. Past him brushed and nudged crowds upon crowds. There must have been a million people, all hurrying past him, working and snaking their ways across the gray brick street. No one stared at Bayne. All rushed on as if seeking someone or something of true import.

The warrior glanced up to find a blazing sun directly overhead. To his sides were tall walls the color of stone. Those walls rose four stories and were peppered with open windows. Even there, in and atop the building, there were people and more people. Some were hanging out windows. Others were busily walking the rooftops.

And all the chatter. Everyone was talking. Seemingly to no one or to themselves. Men swept past Bayne, their lips moving and words flying forth though there seemed no one to whom they spoke. Women and children and elderly and folks of all colors and races and cultures and sizes and shapes flowed along the wide road. All were speaking. Most muttered, some even whispered, a few spoke out loud. Every few seconds one would shout or cry out, more often in anger or confusion than in true alarm.

The din was terrible to the ears. Bayne raised his hands and cupped them around the sides of his bald head to shield himself from the audible blows.

Still, the assault to his eyes was near as harsh as that of his travels through the never-ending rays of light. Bright silks of all colors flowed around, streaming and hanging and dancing from the shoulders and hips and legs and arms of the multitudes crowding around the warrior. Some wore simple garb, garments taken from sheared beasts or cut from animal flesh or pulled from plants, but many were outfitted in the most intense of dyes, colors that hurt the eyes to stare upon.

Bayne threw back his head to belt out his confusion, roaring to that bright sun above, .

When his lungs held no more air, he breathed in, ready for another bellow.

But there was silence. Nothing came to his ears.

He lowered his hands to his sides and glanced about.

The crowd had come to a standstill. All eyes were upon him. The millions upon millions glared at him, their gazes filled with little love but much envy and scorn.

"You!" The shouter was an old man wearing a dirty turban and little more than rags, his clothing pale, soiled strips of linen. He pointed an angled, gray finger at Bayne.

The swordsman suddenly found other fingers jammed in his face. Others beyond and above were pointing as well. A man little more than a boy wearing a striped night robe. A woman in a red tunic and a child on one arm. A man of skin the color of the morning sun, his teeth missing between a beard of black above a shirt of rough wool. All pointing.

"You!" another screamed.

"You!

"You!"

Everyone was shouting and hollering and directing fingers. The voices grew and grew, not in unison but in a mixed discordant jumble of the single word, overlapping one another in different tones and inflections and accents. Never had been heard such a simple, single word said in so many different ways. Some even managed to include more than one syllable. Others barely got the entire word out at all.

But everywhere everyone was pointing and in tumult and their focus was upon the big man in the chain shirt, the heavy sword on his back.

The crowd closed in, nearer and nearer, their sweat and stink and flesh pressing up against Bayne. Fingers were in his face, jabbing at his arms, poking his legs. The voices grew louder and louder until he thought his ears might burst.

Bayne could take no more. His sword came out, gripped in a mighty hand. He swung. The blade bit... nothing.

The weighty, bright steel had slashed into one man, a feeble wizardly fellow pointing and screaming with cracked lips, but it had been as if the blade had touched only air.

Bayne marveled, but then he stabbed with his sword. The point appeared to enter another man's stomach, but there was no impression, no cut, no blood. The end of the blade merely disappeared into the man's shirt as if passing into a shadow, a mirage.

"Algr!" Bayne screamed, his head tossed back to the sky once more. Then he was veering his sword to left and right, in front and behind. Jabbing, stabbing, stroking, cutting, chopping. All to no end. The weapon might as well have been striking ghosts.

The throng continued its pointing and shouting. Now they switched to his name. Louder and louder. "Bayne! Bayne! BAYNE!" Pointing and pointing and pointing.

Bayne stopped. He closed his eyes, catching his breath and allowing his sword to hang from his hand, the point of the weapon nearly touching the ground. Around him pressed these strange people, their fingers clawing over him and rubbing against him and picking at his chain shirt.

He needed to think. His mind shut out the tumult as much as possible as he delved deep within himself. Algr had told him he could go where he wished at will, that he could even return at will. It was simply a matter of thought, of control.

Bayne opened his eyes.

The roar of the crowd had dissipated. The city street was gone. Only the bright sun above remained of the scene before.

Bayne found himself standing on a cliff aside a mountain, perhaps the very mountain he had been climbing all along. Dark, ruddy rock was beneath his boots and a gentle, calming breeze rolled across his sweating skin. He breathed in the mountain air, finding it more pleasing than the sweltering stench of the packed streets he had just fled.

A cackle above him, a laugh not of mirth.

Bayne glanced up, higher along the side of the mountain.

A dark figure was there, cloaked in black, too high to see properly but outlined by the sun. It was a tall figure with long, murky hair.

"Verkanus!" Bayne shouted, pointing with his sword.

But the figure only continued it's dark laughter.

Bayne looked about, studying his surroundings further.

There was no trail. He was not upon the road that wrapped the mountain, but stranded on a flat island along a vertical wall of rock.

There was nothing to do but climb.

He slid his sword back into its sheath and reached up, grabbing at a protruding stone. Planting a booted foot against the wall, he pulled himself up mere inches.

"You will never catch me this way, Bayne kul Kanon," said the form of the emperor above. "You must go back, back to the shadows of the tavern."

Did the figure speak truth? Could it be? Bayne did not know, but what he did know was that the man he sought was within sight though a hundred yards or more away. Bayne would not give up so easily with his prey before him.

He pushed and he pulled and climbed a little ways further.

The mountain disappeared beneath him and Bayne was falling, plummeting into the nothingness of gray clouds appearing below. He shouted out in surprise, his weight pulling him down seemingly faster and faster. He was not flying, but coasting along currents, not rising and falling but simply falling.

What to do? The yellow gem came to mind. He had grasped it and been transported to  
that city of the callous and agitating. Perhaps the gem was the key. Bayne focused on it, imagined it in his mind between his grasping hands. He imagined pulling back, away from the glowing stone, his fingers letting loose of it. But his fingers seemed as if fastened. No matter how hard he thought of dropping the gem, his fingers would not lose their bond.

But then they did.

Air rushed into the big warrior's lungs. He sat back in his chair, gasping and pulling air into his lungs. Sweat was rushing down his face in rivulets, dripping from the ends of his nose and chin. It was as if he had been held under boiling water. His body was hot and steam rose from his muscled arms and legs. His chain shirt scorched where it rubbed against skin.

Algr stood over him, staring down with what appeared to be an amused grin. "Ah, you have returned."

"You!" Bayne shot out of his chair and grabbed the proprietor by his shirt collar. "Scoundrel! You attempted to snare me!"

The tavern keeper continued to grin. He held out his hands as if apologizing for something. "My regrets, good sir, if you have --"

"Hush!" Bayne shouted. "Your words are lies! Tricks to perplex!"

Algr continued to smile, his hands out flat before him. He opened his mouth to speak once more, but Bayne shoved him to the floor where he landed on his end. A cry of surprise and pain escaped the tavern keeper's mouth.

"Stay, if you value your life," the warrior said, pointing to Algr.

Then Bayne surveyed his surroundings. He was still in The Knotted Mesh, standing next to his table and chair. The yellow gem no longer emitted light, but rested in the center of the table. Darkness still played about the establishment, and hundreds upon hundreds of slack faces continued to stare down upon glowing rocks in the grasp of their hands, one face and pair of hands per each of the seemingly hundreds upon hundreds of tables in the place.

There seemed no immediate threat. No one was approaching. No one other than Algr seemed to have noticed the agitated warrior in their midst.

Bayne caught the face of a fellow several tables away. It was another face with limp features. Sagging eyes were enthralled by a cobalt shine in the hands before them. Those eyes. They were familiar. Bayne had seen them before.

In the city.

The old man, the one who had first yelled at him. The one with the dirty turban and the gray skin and the strips of linen for attire.

"Treachery!" Bayne reached low and once more grabbed Algr by his collar, lifting the much smaller man until his soft leather boots no longer touched the floor.

Algr threw up his hands as a defense, but Bayne shook him. The tavern keeper rattled and bobbed left and right, his head swirling about and about as if his neck would surely snap.

"Your lies were a ruse meant to trap me," Bayne shouted in the bobbling face. "You are as the others, looking to gain gold at my expense!"

Then he tossed the proprietor, sending Algr sailing across the very table where Bayne had sat. Algr smashed into the wall and crumpled to the ground where with a shriek he landed on his rear once more.

Bayne shoved his table aside, the yellow gem and chair flying off into shadows.

"No!" shouted Algr, his eyes following the gem as it disappeared into darkness, his hands clutching out as if to save the bauble.

Bayne stopped. He stared from the grasping, beaten Algr to the spot along the wall where the gem had gone missing.

Then he unsheathed his sword, raking steel against the wooden scabbard as a furor escaped his lips not unlike the roar of a jungle cat. The sword went high, over the muscled man's head, the weapon's grip clenched in two bulking hands.

"No!" Algr repeated.

The sword lashed out to Bayne's right.

Where it connected with another gem, this one glowing green in the hands of a young man with nearly-closed eyes. Sparks flew as the orb exploded, sending shards of jade needles in all directions. A screech as of metal on metal filled the air and Bayne threw up an arm to shield his eyes.

The youth who had held the gem shouted in surprise and anguish as the blooming green light burst before his eyes and the tiny javelins nailed themselves into his hands and face. He fell back from his table, grabbing at his face while flailing to the floor, toppling his chair with him.

From his spot on the ground, Algr reached out to Bayne. "Madness!"

No other in The Knotted Mesh seemed aware of the events. Stoned faces were still enthralled by the worlds they found with their shimmering baubles. Table after table and chair after chair carried silence. There were no witnesses other than Algr and Bayne himself. Even the youth on the floor was busy crying and wiping bloody streaks from his face.

The big warrior bound to the next table. He swung his blade again. Another gem shattered, this one a deep azure. A familiar howl from the once-entranced figure at the table greeted Bayne, then died away to moans and cries. More sparks expanded and more glass-like darts flew.

Bayne spun for the next table. He swung and slashed and lanced with his blade, sometimes sending the gems hurtling against the wall to smash but most often breaking the orbs with his own blows. Embers and flickers and glints of light illuminated the darkness of the tavern briefly before dying in a hail of glass splinters and crying persons with hazed eyes.

Men rolled from their tables, toppled to the floor, screamed out in grief and surprise. The place was no longer silent and dull, but turmoil and mayhem reigned. Flames appeared dancing along one wall. A shrieking figure rolled into the fires, catching his tunic ablaze. Everywhere there was dismay as the unaware were brought abruptly to awareness with pain.

Bayne continued to swing his sword. More shouts and cries followed. The fire spread, growing along the long wall and spreading across the floor as if oil had been poured out. Shadowy figures struggled to their feet and made their way toward the exit or behind the bar or into the deeper darkness of the tavern that extended into the mountainside, anywhere there could be a possibility of freedom. Smoke was growing, building up gradually at first then rushing forth from burning wooden floors and walls and tables and chairs and burning people and their garments.

Algr used a chair to climb to his feet. He clutched at the air, his fingers clawing to reach for Bayne. "Stop this! Please!"

The warrior was some distance away by then, having shattered dozens upon dozens of the magic stones, but he heard Algr's cries and swiftly returned to the man.

Flames illuminated the anger on Bayne's face, the glow giving him a demonic appearance. "Flee form here, you fool," he shouted to the tavern keeper, "and be thankful I do not gut you where you stand."

A shove sent Algr reeling toward the front of The Knotted Mesh. The man was quickly lost in the disorganized chaos of the fleeing customers.

Bayne glanced about. The crowd was gradually forming into lines of the fearful, but the scrabble for escape was too intense to bring order to the chaos. Men were crawling over one another, their shouts cries for their mothers and fathers. The few women present were trampled or shoved up against the bar. Several enterprising patrons knocked aside bottles and mugs and climbed atop the bar itself, reducing the flow toward the exit but not enough.

The tavern had become like a bottle with the entrance the neck of the bottle and the crowd the cork. Bayne could see little at the doorway other than a mass of scrambling and clawing madmen fighting their way for the exit.

Meanwhile, the flames were fluttering about his heels and overtaking the ceiling above. Something had to be done. Bayne would have to remove the cork himself.

"Move!" the warrior yelled over the heads of the slinking mob.

As frustrated and desperate as the crowd was, a verbal assault did not help. They were all attempting to squeeze through the doorway at the same time, some fighting between themselves or climbing or scrambling over and around one another. Bedlam ruled.

Bayne cursed as he put away his sword. Then he charged. He would try not kill any more of these fools, but that didn't mean he wouldn't rough them up. With a yell he slammed a shoulder into the back of a man, reeling the fellow off to one side. The momentum in Bayne's muscled legs continued him forward where he shoved against another man, this one sent flailing over the top of the bar. Then another man went flying, and another was thrust atop a table. A woman was pushed out of the way.

Sensing something was happening, was approaching, cries went up among the mass of corked bodies. Terrified eyes gave fleeting looks back to the monster in chain wading toward them.

Bayne kept up his rush. A man went down beneath his boots. Another fellow was elbowed out of the way. A youth was lifted off his feet by a forceful shove and sent fluttering over a chair.

Those between Bayne and the door saw their doom approaching.

As if a demon were on their very tails, they pushed and twisted and shoved and kicked and thrust.

There was an audible popping noise. Then bodies began flailing their way through the door. Most were propelled outside by the force of those behind. Some were walked on or stomped on or ran upon. All wanted out of the way of the beast bearing down on them.

For the first time since entering, Bayne could see daylight. It was weak, but it streamed through the door over the heads of those scrambling away from him.

He kept pushing and shoving, bashing and punching.

Then, suddenly, he was at the fore of the mass. Those in the crowd remaining between Bayne and the exit charged out of his way or jumped aside. The door stood before him mere feet away. It was now empty of all.

Algr appeared from outside. He stood in the doorway, a dagger gripped underhanded, the weapon hoisted for attack.

Bayne did not hesitate. He snapped out a hand and grabbed Algr's wrist, crushing bone with a squeeze of his fingers. Throughout this action Bayne did not stop moving. His left shoulder slammed into Algr's nose, breaking it and spraying blood and sending the man rolling back into the sunlight off the tavern's porch into the grass and dirt.

And Bayne was through. He was outside on the stone stoop. He stood atop the few steps there and stared about. Those from the tavern were running, fleeing the madman and disappearing into the woods or down the mountain trail. There were still others making their way out of The Knotted Mesh, but they gave good distance to the warrior and continued their own flight.

Algr lay on his back several feet from Bayne. The owner of The Knotted Mesh had dropped his flimsy weapon and was holding his nose with his good hand while clutching the broken wrist to his chest. Tears streamed down his face.

Flames were beginning to flicker through the slats of the tavern's shutters and black smoke was already rolling out the top of the open doorway.

Eventually there were no former customers fleeing the establishment, all having made their way elsewhere along the mountain, and Bayne found himself alone with Algr.

The tavern keeper had not moved. He lay on his back, his eyes wet and staring at the smoke drifting over his head from the flames now snaking out the front door and making their way up the outside of building.

Bayne strode over to the man and stared down at him.

Algr blinked and rubbed away his tears with his good hand.

"You are welcome," Bayne said.

"Welcome?" Algr sat up, propping himself on the ground with his good hand as blood continued to trickle from his nose to coat his chin. "For what should I thank you? For obliterating all that I held dear?"

"For freeing you," Bayne said.

Algr sputtered, his anger and pain relinquishing his ability to form words. He appeared only capable of spitting and cursing and kicking at the ground.

Bayne waited patiently.

Eventually Algr calmed himself and was able to speak once more. "I did not need your freeing! I was happy and content as I was, as were the others under my care."

Bayne snorted. "Not all who are slaves recognize the chains that bind them."

"Slavery to what?" Tears sprang alive in Algr's eyes again as he cried out, spittle flying from his lips and his tears and snot mingling with blood to form a stream of gore down the front of his shirt.

"It was a false world, Algr," Bayne said, "a world without true meaning. A world of lies."

The owner of the burning building went silent and lay on his back. His eyes closed. If not for the jerky rising and falling of his chest, Bayne would have believed him dead.

"As you wish," the warrior stated, then he turned and walked away from The Knotted Mesh and its wounded owner.

Algr did not rise, nor did he speak or open his eyes. The flames continued clawing their way to the sky. Soon the structure that had been The Knotted Mesh was no more than a pile of blackened, broken timber along the mountainside.

If Bayne had looked back, he would have found Algr no longer there. But Bayne did not look back.

The warrior continued up the mountain road, a road of gravel that now rose sharply. Eventually he had to stop, but not because of any wish to do so.

His path was blocked. Boulders upon boulders, along with tons of soil and broken trees, now served as a wall against him.

There had been a road slide, an avalanche of unbecoming power.
Chapter IV: The Cave

The wall of rocks would have seemed an insurmountable obstacle to overcome for any other man, but Bayne was not one to surrender to hopelessness. He stood with hands on hips for a lengthy while, studying the slide.

Bayne's first attempt to circumvent this new impediment was the most simple. He tried to go around. But the mountain road was beyond being blocked. It was destroyed. It was as if a new, smaller mountain had been built along the path. There would be no simple bypassing of this new, smaller mountain. To go left meant a plummet to the treetops, now gray and cloudy and far below. To go right meant climbing straight up the side of the mountain, which Bayne was not opposed to attempting but only as a last resort.

Next the bald warrior put his muscles to work. He began lifting, one rock at a time, and tossing those rocks over the side of the mountain. His strength was beyond that of lesser men, thus he was capable of moving much heavier stones than might be expected, but even Bayne found his match with the largest of boulders. Also, whenever he would manage to move much of the rock, dirt and broken trees and scrub brush would roll or rain down from above to fill the hole he had just created. There seemed no way to win.

After an hour of tossing rock and seeing little progress, Bayne gave up on that route of attack. He remained fresh despite his limbs being oiled by sweat beneath the sun, but digging and moving rock was not the answer. There was too much rock, and the mountainside seemed to hold a personal grudge against Bayne, filling in wherever he had managed to create a fissure.

Climbing was the next option. Instead of tackling the mountain itself, Bayne opted for trying the lesser task of climbing the slide. His fingers reached up high and pulled as he planted a boot against a boulder the size of a small horse. Rocks came tumbling down. Grit and grime dropped into the big man's eyes. Bayne cursed and backed away, spitting dirt. He eyed the situation further. If only he could find a spot that would hold him without dumping the slide's contents onto his face.

A possibility appeared to one side, furthest out from the mountain proper. Bayne scanned the potential climb. It would be dangerous. His legs would be hanging in open air for most of the climb, and the fall was one he did not know if even he would survive.

No. That way held too high a risk. There had to be another route. He drifted to the far side of the avalanche, against the mountain itself. His eyes followed the top of the slide, over each boulder and rock and piece of grit. He couldn't climb the slide itself for it would just fall apart beneath his hands and feet. He didn't want to dare scaling the outside of the avalanche because there was too much risk, though Bayne did not fear his own death as much as he did never catching Verkanus.

He glanced up. The rim of a flat outcropping lingered in the haze high over his head. That rim ran left and right to disappear along the flanks of the mountain. It was the familiar road, continuing its route. It had to be.

Bayne glanced back the way he had come. The only other alternative open to him was to retreat down the mountain in hopes of finding another path. But he had seen no other paths. No, going back was not an option.

He reached out and gripped the side of the mountain, his sturdy fingers digging into dirt. He raised a boot and pressed it against stone. He pulled with his hands and held himself with his booted feet.

He was climbing.

The wall here was more sturdy than that of the rock slide. Next to no dirt came toppling into his face. Gravity was the main enemy, but Bayne was strong and his climbing skills showed experience. Fortunately it was not a sheer wall, but offered handholds aplenty in branches and crevices between rock.

Never once did he look down as he climbed. There was no need. He was going in the other direction, hand over hand and boot over boot.

Inches at a time did Bayne make his way up the side of the mountain. Rarely did he pause for more than a few seconds, and then he was scanning for a new, proper placement for his next grip. More than once he was hanging only by his fingers, and more than once was he balanced only on the tips of his toes or the balls of his feet.

It was a perilous ascension. Without aid of ropes and tools or magic, no mortal man could have accomplished such.

At moments, as his chest scraped stone and forced the chain links of his shirt to sink into his flesh, Bayne pondered his own ability to survive such a climb. After some little time, blood was beginning to seep from the ends of his fingers, making his trip all that more perilous. Scrapes too appeared along his bare arms and more than a few tears appeared in his garb, including a new rent along one side of his leather boots.

Still, he climbed on, his eyes always on the immediate task or staring up and ahead to what he reasoned must be another route along the mountain road.

A little more than halfway to his destination, Bayne finally rested for longer than at any other time during his climb. Despite the sweat dripping from his chin and running along his arms, he was not exhausted. He had paused, his feet planted solidly on separate flat rocks, to wipe away the blood now staining his palms. Leaning forward so his chest rested against the mountainside, he kept one hand gripping a hanging root while lowering the other hand to wipe it clean on his leggings.

The root snapped, broke.

Bayne fell.

He shouted as he clawed at the air and the side of the mountain. His fingers tore into dirt and scraped against rock, tearing away a half dozen finger nails and leaving scratches and slashes in the flesh of his hands.

What saved him from a longer fall was that he did not turn onto his back or side as he plummeted. Bayne's feet always remained lower than the main of his body.

His boots landed on dirt then skidded out from under him. It wasn't much, but it was enough. Bayne lashed out with both hands, scrambling for anything to hold. His fingers clamped upon a branch, really a small tree, sticking straight out of the side of the mountain.

There was another snapping sound and a creak as the big man's full weight caught on the end of the branch, but the branch held.

Bayne was suspended over the side of the mountain, his arms wrapping around the tree to hold him in place as his legs dangled. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, giving his mind and body a moment of relief from the shock of the sudden drop.

Slowly he opened his eyes and glanced down.

He had not fallen half the distance he had already climbed. There was that much for which to be thankful. But his hands were a near ruin, and as long as he needed them to hold onto the branch, his natural healing abilities would not prevail. There was still strength in him, enough even to finish the climb, but his fingers and palms looked as if they were raw meat. Even if he could withstand the stinging pain, the blood was washing over the flesh of his hands and would offer him no ability to form a solid handhold. And here, hanging by the strength of his arms alone, there was little to no opportunity for him to attempt tearing makeshift bandages from his own clothing. Nor did there appear to be any other options for covering and soothing his hands.

Worse was the fact that though he might not be able to climb up further, he was also in little condition to climb back down. He couldn't hang there forever; his weight would eventually break the tree upon with he rested.

Bayne cursed. He was not one to deny the existence of the gods, though neither did he arbitrarily accept their being. Still, that day on that mountain, he cursed every one of them he could remember. From the Almighty Ashal who walked among men to the heathen gods of deepest, darkest jungles, Bayne lay his curses upon them all.

Then he closed his eyes and breathed in slowly to reserve his strength. Stronger and more sturdy than other men, he could hang from that branch for the longest of times. But eventually he might tire, or more likely the branch would break. But he could not do nothing. Bloodied hands, scraped flesh and all, he would have to try to climb.

Something brushed against his face.

Bayne opened his eyes. Hanging before him with one end laying across his arms was a rope of sorts, a braided cord appearing to be made of some sort of dark hair. He looked up. The rope continued its length up the side of the mountain, disappearing over the lip of what Bayne guessed to be a furtherance of the road.

"Foolish little boy," a silky feminine voice said from above, "for what are you waiting?"

Bayne asked himself the same question. Then he reached out and took hold of the braids. Being no fool, he tested the strength of the line before putting his complete weight and trust into the thing, but he found it sturdy and serviceable. Still, his hands were slippery from the blood and he feared the cord would slide between his fingers and leave him to a fall. To prevent such a tragedy from happening, he wrapped the rope of hair around his waist beneath his arms and tied his end into a knot. Then he tested the rope one more time. It seemed to hold.

Planting his boots against the side of the mountain once more, Bayne began to climb. Hand over hand he made his way up. Every so often one bloody hand would slip, but Bayne's luck held and his other hand always kept a sturdy grip. The higher he rose, the easier the climb became. It was more like walking the side of the mountain than actual climbing, the rope of hair obviously aiding in his ascension.

Finally, after many tired minutes, Bayne reached the edge of the slip of stone above. He threw one leg over and pulled himself up, the strands of locks still wrapped around his trunk.

The surprise of what he found must have been evident on his face by the laughter of the woman seated before him. She was a beauty, dark-haired with coal-rimmed eyes shaped like almonds; she wore a simple black chemise that outlined her body well and revealed the pale flesh of her arms and neck. Her lips were like a flower, a rose, as red and seemingly as smooth as petals.

"Dumfounded?" she asked. Then laughed again.

Bayne stood and untied the hair rope from around him, letting it fall to his feet at the edge of the cliff. He glanced about and admitted to himself that yes, he was quite dumbfounded. Little here was as he had expected.

A woman he had expected, but not this exotic beauty who appeared as if a queen from a fairy tale. More surprising and of more immediate interest were his surroundings. Yes, he was on the side of the mountain, but there was no road here. The ledge upon which he stood was as wide as a small field but as narrow as the distance he could toss a rock. No road or path meandered away from either sides of this flat plane. It was disappointing.

Before him, little more than a few strides away, on flat stone sat the woman, her legs pulled up beneath her. She leaned against a boulder, one hand caressing the gray stone. Around this large rock was twined the rope of hair, braid after braid and loop after loop. Bayne noticed the rope carried the same shades as that of the woman's locks, thus was not surprised when he saw the cord of hair snaked up from the bottom of the massive stone to disappear behind the woman's shoulders. It was her hair that had enabled him to traverse the mountain.

Beyond the woman some short distance was an entrance to a cave. It was a large cave opening. Bayne would not have to stoop to enter. And the sides were wide enough he could swing a sword if necessary. Still, the darkness of the cave was seemingly endless and waves of air as cold as a northern night drifted forth from that maw.

The woman giggled again.

Bayne glanced to her. "Thank you for your assistance."

She held out a hand, offering a bronzed dagger. "Be a man and help."

Bayne stared at her nonplussed. "What is this?" he asked, pointing to the small weapon.

"Idiot!" She flipped her head forward to reveal the cord of dark hair rising up her back. Another flip and the bound tresses lay on her shoulder. Reaching over with her free hand, she grasped the coil as if seizing a venomous snake. The dagger flashed, the golden blade sliding through the strands as a scythe through wheat.

"There!" She let the free end of the rope fall to the ground and shook her head to loosen her remaining locks. The darkness of the tresses flowed around her face and over her shoulders as if dark silk.

The woman glanced to Bayne with scorn in her features, as if he were useless. The dagger vanished beside her on the ground.

Then she was all smiles, flashing a grin. She held up her long, slender arms. "Help me stand."

Bayne did not move for a moment, as if there were struggle of wills going on between his own mind and that of the woman. Would he help her? If not, why not? Simply to spite her? He shook his head. Such thinking was foolish. Coming to this woman's aid, especially for such a simple task, gave her no power over him unless he allowed her to have such power. Besides, she had just rescued him, perhaps even saved his life, thus it was worthy of him to show gratitude. He wiped his blood-stained hands on the sides of his leggings and stepped forward, gently wrapping his strong fingers about the woman's wrists. He lifted slightly and she came up on her feet, feet clothed in simple, flat silk footwear.

Bayne removed his hands from her arms. He noticed his palms and fingers were no longer bleeding and his other wounds had healed themselves. Whether this was due to his own healing abilities or magic from the woman, he did not know, but saw no reason to question.

"Do you fear the touch of a beautiful woman?" the woman asked, a look of intrigue and laughter in her eyes.

"I fear little," Bayne said, "especially not you."

He stepped to one side and marched past her.

"Fool!" She screamed, spun and followed the warrior, right behind his heavy footsteps. "Am I not the most beautiful woman your eyes have beheld?"

Bayne ignored the question as he moved to stand in front of the cave's entrance. He pointed into the darkness. "What lies within?"

She flitted around in front of him, stretching out a lengthy arm as if to bar his passing. "It is my cave." She smiled once more, showing teeth that glittered as if beneath a bright moon. "It is warm inside, and there are many fine rugs for laying upon."

"Where does it lead?" Bayne asked.

The woman's smile faltered. "Into the mountainside."

"And beyond?" Bayne said.

"There is no beyond."

Bayne stared at her. "The mountain road does not extend here. You had to arrive somehow. The cave is the obvious choice. It must lead somewhere."

"It leads nowhere but deeper inside the mountain."

Bayne cocked his head and stared at her. "Did a man come this way? Dressed in black. Long, black hair."

"You speak of the emperor," the woman said, "and no, he did not venture into these climes. His way was another."

"Then I thank you again for your assistance," Bayne said, "but I must be on my way."

He took a step around her.

She jumped in front of him again, this time her hands extended out toward him, nearly pleading. "There is nowhere to go but here!" Her smile returned and she waved a hand towards the depths of the cave. "But please, enter and find yourself a nice spot. A big, strong man such as yourself should have no troubles building us a fire. I will find my hookah and we can have a glorious afternoon in the clouds of nothingness."

"Thank you, but no." Bayne marched around her once more, his strides taking him to the edges of the dark.

"Fool!" the woman shouted behind him.

He glanced over a shoulder.

The woman's features had grown harsh, her black eyebrows angled in anger on her forehead. She threw up her arms in exasperation. "Go, then! Enter and be damned! You will find nothing but my two sisters, and they will tear apart your soul!"

Bayne shrugged, then unsheathed his sword from his back. "Let them beware, then," he said, "for I will brook no further obstacles."

Then he turned his back upon her and sauntered into the black of the mountain.

It was as if he stepped through a thin wall of vapor. One moment he was outside beneath the sun, the next he was within near-complete darkness. Bayne paused to allow his sight to soak in the black around him. His eyes could only gain focus to a small extent within the gloom, but after long seconds he could just make out the walls some little distance to his left and right. The cave's floor too appeared in dim outline, as if a soft glow lay about the rocky ground.

He glanced back. The outside was no more. The woman was no more. An inky barrier was all there was.

He listened. There was nothing. No sounds before or aft.

Bayne marched on.

His momentum was slow, each step taken meaningfully. One boot at a time he would extend to test the ground before him, and finding the step safe he would continue on with the next. His sword he held out to one side, switching hands every so often as to protect both sides.

As he made his way, it occurred to Bayne it had been a foolish thing to step into the cave without knowledge of what lay beyond. But he was not one to know fear, and from past experience had yet to meet danger he had not been able to overcome or avoid in some manner or other.

The woman had him curious, but not to an extent where he had wanted to spend more time with her. She was a seductress, perhaps a witch or even a demoness. Bayne had no time nor interest in being seduced. A sexual encounter would only slow him further in his pursuit of Verkanus, and only the gods knew what devilment the woman had had planned for him.

She had mentioned two sisters who lay ahead. Bayne would be wary of them. But if they were no more seductive nor threatening than their sibling, Bayne believed he had little to fear from them. Finding Verkanus had taken years, and now chasing Verkanus on the mountain was taking longer than Bayne had expected, and he was growing impatient. He promised himself no more delays in the hunt. He would get through the cave, preferably back to the mountain road, then he would find the emperor, question him and then come what may.

After some little time with his thoughts, Bayne noticed the cave narrowed slightly and curved to his right. Further along the curve became a rounded turn. He followed.

A soft light appeared before him in the distance, a dancing light. Crimson and yellow, the glow seemed likely that of a torch or similar flame.

Bayne tramped on.

The flickering light slowly grew brighter and nearer and eventually took form as that of a small cooking fire off to one side in a place where the tunnel opened into a wider expanse of the cave before continuing on. The fire itself was neat and tidy, surrounded by perfectly-smooth stones. Atop it sat an iron frame, and upon the frame rested an iron skillet and a copper tea kettle which was just beginning to whistle.

On the far side of the cooking fire was a small woman with short golden locks that just touched at the ends of her ears and lay loosely on her neck. She wore a simple russet tunic and simple wool boots that rose above her ankles. Her seat was a simple wooden chair that had the added extravagance of a crimson, plump cushion.

She motioned for Bayne to approach, and he did, sheathing his sword.

He was wary of this one, likely the first of the sisters of the temptress outside, but her demeanor seemed pleasant and simple. As Bayne neared, he noted her features were not unattractive, though she was no natural beauty as the dark-haired one had been. Her skin was pale, her nose pointed but not sharp, her eyes blue but not piercing.

"Please, have a seat, good sir." She waved a hand over the fire and an identical chair to her own appeared from nothingness.

Bayne sat. And stared in silence across the flames to the woman.

She raised an arm over the empty frying pan, tilting the hand as if showing off rare gems or jewels. "Would you partake of my lunch, good sir?"

Bayne glanced at the skillet. "It is empty, fair one."

"Look again," she said.

Bayne blinked, and a half dozen strips of bacon appeared sizzling in the center of the pan.

"That is a fine trick," he said.

She nodded. "Yes, it is. Many a fine soldier would wish for such fare when on the march."

"I am no soldier," Bayne explained, "nor am I on the march."

"You appear to be marching somewhere, my friend. To where, I would ask?"

Bayne stared at her, a good, long stare. Could he trust this one? She seemed less intrusive than the seductress, but Bayne did not know this woman. She appeared to be a fine enough female, both physically and verbally, but the mountain was a strange place filled with dangers and magic.

His lack of fear decided him. "I follow a man in black robes. He likely would have passed near these parts in the last few days."

The woman scrunched up her eyes and stared into the frying pan as if she were having a difficult time remembering something. Finally, she said, "There has been no one but yourself through these caverns in the longest of times. The road around the mountain lies far to the other end of these tunnels."

"I thank you," Bayne said, standing as if to depart. "You have provided more knowledge than did you sister."

"My sister?" The woman shot up out of her seat, her hands suddenly nervous and fidgeting before her. "You have met one of my sisters?"

Bayne nodded back the way he had came. "She of the long, dark hair."

"Oh, oh!" The woman spun about and away from her chain, frantic as she moved from one side of the cave to the other and back, pacing in anxiousness. She would not look at Bayne though she continued to speak with a hurried voice, the words seeming more for herself than for the warrior. "Must beware of her! She is a trickster, that one. She will defile and debase all that is pure, all that is honorable!"

Bayne stepped forward and placed a firm hand on one of her shoulders.

The woman stopped immediately, her eyes wide and pleading as she looked up to the big man.

"No harm came to me, so still yourself, woman," Bayne said. "In truth, your sister was of assistance to me in a dire circumstance."

"She would!" The words were nearly spat. "She only came to your aid to have you for herself!"

Bayne removed his hand from the woman and laughed. He tossed his bald head back, closed his eyes and let go with a mighty guffaw to the ceiling and any gods above. Finally, "Woman, I am not so easily tamed. Control yourself."

She did. She lowered her hands and her head and returned to her seat, plopping down in the chair as swiftly as if she had been ordered to by a master.

Bayne looked to the woman with sympathy. She was one of the few along his mountain path who had not tried to cause him harm or grief. As well, she seemed trapped here somehow, perhaps by strong magics or perhaps even an ailment of the mind that would not allow her to free herself. Still, there seemed little Bayne could do for her. She appeared healthy and capable and safe, and it was not Bayne's duty to save every distressed damsel who crossed his path.

"My apologies to you, good woman," he said with a nod, "but I must be on my way."

He turned to leave.

"Will you not stay?"

Bayne looked back to her. "I must not. The longer I delay, the further my target gets away from me."

"But why do you have to go after him?" Her eyes were pleading again, her hands clutched tightly in her lap.

Bayne sighed. "It is a long tale, my lady. One that would delay me even more."

A smile sprang onto her face. "You could stay! I can bring you more than bacon! Anything you wish. Ask and it will be yours. Ale, bread, steak, mead, any and all."

"Many thanks, but no."

"I would make a good wife!" she blurted, standing, her hands running along her hips. "I am ripe for child bearing, and would make a strong mother. You are a fine, strong man and would make an excellent mate."

Bayne's gaze filled with pity. She was throwing herself at him, the desperate woman.

Her hands snapped out and grasped him by a wrist. "Please, you must stay! I will be good to you. I can give you everything a good husband desires. My sisters cannot promise such. They have their qualities, but they are no mothers."

Bayne attempted with his free hand to tenderly pry away the woman's fingers, but her grip was too strong. Too strong? How could that be? Bayne had never known a man physically more powerful than himself, let alone a woman.

"Release me," he said.

She did not. "No! No, you will stay here with me. I will be your wife and the mother to our children. You will be the good husband and father, hunting for our feasts and bringing home trinkets from far lands to our brood."

She leaned back toward her chair, gently pulling Bayne along with her.

Again he was surprised by her strength. He was forced to take a step just to keep up with her.

But enough. The pity that had resided in Bayne's orbs died away to be replaced with anger.

"Harpy!" he shouted. "You are no better than your other!"

With those words he clamped a hand onto one of her wrists and twisted. She cried out as the flesh felt as if burning beneath his rough touch. He twisted further and she released her grip.

The woman fell back onto her seat.

Bayne wasted no time and sprang away, dashing down the far tunnel and away from the woman and her grotto.

"Come back to me!" Her voice trailed after him. It bounced along the walls in echoes.

But Bayne did not go back. He kept one hand along the left wall so as not to lose his place and kept running.

The woman continued to yell and scream.

Eventually her faded died away with distance and Bayne slowed to a walk. Glancing about, he was glad to find the strange glow of the cave still allowed him sight, as limited as it was. He was also glad to be away from that woman. The first sister had said there were two others, which meant one still lay along his path. He would be wary of her. But the second sister had spoken of the road at the far end of the tunnel, the direction Bayne was sure he was heading. That final thought gave him hope and he trotted on.

As Bayne traveled, the glow of the cave grew in luminosity, allowing him to drop his outstretched hand along the left wall. The light was still dim, but it was as of an early morn and well enough by which to see. His sword out and leading the way, Bayne increased his speed.

His travels seemed to last for hours. The cave curved left back into the depths of the mountain for some while, then there was a sharp turn to the right followed by a long, straight path that gradually climbed. Fortunately for Bayne there were few offshoots from his main path, and these side routes were small and narrow and thus of no interest. Bayne wanted to reach the outside, preferably near the mountain road, and none of the lesser tunnels he spotted appeared to lead in the direction he surmised was the surface.

After some little while, he once more spotted light ahead. It was a steady light, firm and unbending. Bayne grinned. This could be but sunlight ahead.

He sped even faster than before, running and running, jumping over small outcroppings of stone and rock and other minor stalagmites.

The nearer he approached this new brightness, the more he became convinced it was daylight. The nearer he grew to it, the warmer his surroundings became. Sweat even appeared to gloss his potent muscles.

A stone's throw from the light, Bayne slowed to a walk. Ahead he could indeed see the cave opened up once again to the outside world. From his vantage point he could make out a flat sward of green that ended at a drop-off some little distance from the cave's mouth; beyond the cliff's edge was the day's sky, bright with blue and the white wisps of clouds. Thankfully there was no black screen here as before when he had entered, but perhaps that had been a device of the temptress with the black hair.

Stepping into the light of day, Bayne's smile broadened. He was indeed outside again, though he did not spy the road. The sward stretched far to his left and right, and young trees wearing fruit haphazardly lined the wall of the mountain now just behind the big man.

The scent of cooking bacon came to his nose once more.

Bayne sniffed. To his left was from where the smell came, likely around a bend in the mountain side.

He ignored it for the moment and walked out to the cliff's edge. He stared down in hopes of seeing the road below. But no, there was but a long fall into a gray mist in which the tops of other crags and some few trees appeared as ghosts. Bayne glanced up, his hopes not yet dashed. Above there lay only more mountain, gray and silent and forlorn.

The grin slid from the warrior's face as he sighed. To the smell of the bacon, then. Perhaps the witch could provide him with the location of the road. Or perhaps he could force the information from her, if need be. Mayhap he could even find out if Verkanus had passed this way, and how long ago, for Bayne had lost all track of time while within the mountain.

He sauntered off in the direction from which came the aroma of the cooking meat, his boots leaving imprints in the grass as he crossed the green ledge. Rounding the bend in the mountain, the new site brought him up short.

Before him sat a woman on a rock, her back to him. Her presence alone had not stopped the warrior in his tracks, for he had expected her there, but she was unlike her two sisters, unlike any woman with whom Bayne had been familiar.

He could as yet perceive her features as her face was turned away, but she was tall and well muscled, appearing as strong as many a man. A shirt of bronzed scales layered her back and chest over a leather doublet that reached down her arms just past the elbows. Wrapping her wrists were leather bracers inlaid with wide strips of gray stone, while tanned leggings covered her legs, disappearing into deerskin moccasins. Most notable to Bayne, however, and causing his breath to catch, was a single braid of auburn suspended beneath a round, hammered helm and ending in drifts near the back of her waist. Beneath this golden-brown coil hung a curved sword, the hilt rising above the woman's right shoulder.

She was a warrior born. Her arms and legs, her armor, the sword, all were evidence of this. Bayne never had known such a female. He had witnessed women caught up in war, some who had picked up weapons to fight side-by-side with their men or to protect loved ones, but none had been a natural warrior nor a trained soldier.

She rolled her head just enough so he could make out her profile. Strong nose. Carved but graceful chin. High cheek bones. A curl of russet draping down from beneath her helmet to fall between eyes the color of a dying storm.

Her head veered further so she could see him.

She stood and faced him. "I am Valdra." Her voice was a knife grating through ice.

"I am Bayne."

"I have expected you, Bayne," she said. "My sisters informed me of your presence. You follow the mad king."

Bayne glanced about as if expecting the two sisters to appear, not noticing his own slight crouch at the potential danger.

Valdra smiled. "We are alone, for now."

Bayne stood tall once more. "You are the first to give me your name."

"My sisters are secretive," Valdra said with a shrug. "It can be expected of sorceresses."

"You are no witch, then?"

Valdra continued to smile though her eyes narrowed. "Not in the same manner as they."

Bayne rolled his eyes. "As ever with women. Words that have no meaning."

Valdra chuckled. "And as ever with men. Not willing to seek a meaning."

Their eyes locked. There was no more laughter between them, but also no signs of hostility. The world around them grew silent. No birds clamored through the air. No insects sang beneath their feet. The only sound remaining was that of the shallow breaths from between their own lips.

Valdra glanced away and the moment passed. She turned and waved a hand over a small fire that had been hidden by her body. "Would you partake?" The fire was ringed by stones the size of a fist. Hanging over the flames was a little pig skewered on a spit of iron.

"I believe I will not," Bayne said. "I do not trust eating the fare of witches."

Valdra grinned once more. "There have been too many fairy tales," she said. "Witches must eat the same as any woman. Not every meal can be poisoned or laced with potions."

Bayne grunted. "No, not every meal, but perhaps that one."

Valdra laughed again, then slid a small dagger from beneath one of her wrist bracers. "Very well, Bayne kul Kanon. If you will not accept my hospitality, I hope you will not consider it rude if I should continue with my feast."

He nodded.

Valdra returned to her seat of stone. She sliced a long, thin sliver of pig meat and speared it with her knife. She held the blade up and watched the steam linger above the cooling slice of pork. Then with a grin she stabbed the meat into her mouth and chewed.

Bayne eased forward to one side of the woman, watching her.

She cut another hunk of the meat. "Do you trust my meal now?"

"Because it does you no harm does not mean my own safety is assured."

Valdra laughed again, her hardest, longest laugh yet. Her laughter was so boisterous, for a moment it appeared as if she would choke. Then she slapped a knee and stabbed the meat into her mouth once more, chewing and chewing and chewing before swallowing.

The she stared up at Bayne with a smile all teeth. "More pig for me, then."

She went on eating, slicing and cutting and poking the pig meat into her maw.

Bayne had never witnessed a woman with such an appetite. She was not piggish nor sloppy with her eating habits, but she did not dawdle nor poke about with her food. She ate with purpose and rigidity.

It was almost comical to see.

Finally, Bayne let loose with a chuckle of his own.

Between bites, she glanced up at him. "You could at least have a seat," she said.

Bayne suddenly noticed a folding stool of wood and cloth next to him. He glared at it, then back to the woman.

She pointed at the chair with her dagger.

Bayne grimaced but sat. Why he sat, he was not sure. Valdra had so far been no help to him in his travels. However, he had to admit she seemed more open than her sisters. Perhaps once she was finished with her meal she would provide Bayne with knowledge, such as the way to the road. Perhaps she even knew the location of Verkanus himself.

As if underscoring his potential faith in her, Valdra threw down her dagger, the point sticking into the ground between her feet.

"You have questions?" she asked.

A more direct approach. Bayne approved. "Yes."

"The road is back the way you came," Valdra said, pointing in the direction. "Where you turned left from the cave, instead turn right. Follow the grassy ledge around the mountain to the other side. It is a good walk, but eventually the ledge dips down and you will find the road below. There will be a short drop, but I believe you can manage the climb."

"Very well." Bayne stood. "My thanks."

"There is more," the woman said. "This emperor you seek, he is near."

One of Bayne's eyebrows rose in curiosity.

"You lost more time than you believed at the village and the tavern," Valdra went on, "but your trip through the mountain has shortened your course. You are but several hours behind Verkanus."

Bayne nodded. "The tunnel was a fortunate route instead of the annoyance it had seemed."

"It was."

"Very well," Bayne repeated. "Again, my thanks."

He turned to leave.

The dark-haired temptress from the cave entrance stood there, mere feet away, almost within sword-striking distance.

Bayne sprang to one side, away from the beauty and her sister in armor. His sword slipped into his hands, gripped in front of him. "Treachery!"

"Not from me." Valdra retrieved her dagger and went back to slicing meat from the stuck pig.

She of the black hair grinned.

Bayne glanced from one woman to the other and back again. His leg muscles tensed, ready to spring to action.

"Nor from me," another voice sounded.

Bayne spun.

The other sister had appeared, the one with intentions of marriage and motherhood. She sat on her familiar cushioned chair opposite Valdra, across the dancing flames of the fire.

Bayne took several hasty steps back so as to have all three in sight.

The dark-haired beauty laughed and approached her sisters. An iron divan, bolstered with padding, emerged from the nothingness of the air across the fire from Bayne. This last sister standing eased onto the couch, lounging back against its cushioning.

"Care for a bite?" Valdra asked, extending an offering of meat from the tip of her knife.

The temptress snarled.

The motherly one blanched and sat back on her chair.

Bayne stood his ground, sword extended.

Valdra glanced to him. "You are jumpy for such a fine, strong fighter."

"I have learned to distrust magic and those who wield it," Bayne said.

Valdra popped the pig meat into her mouth, chewed and tossed her blade point-first into the ground once more. She swallowed, then, "My sisters can cause you no harm."

The temptress hissed.

The other sister's eyes went wide.

"Why is that?" Bayne asked, curious.

Valdra chuckled, stood and faced the big man. "Because you are immune to their charms. One wishes for a husband. The other wishes you in her bed. Neither is likely to happen."

"And what do you wish?"

"I?" Valdra said. "I wish but for a good horse and strong steel." She extended a hand to him. "Bayne kul Kanon, I will not cross blades with you, nor will I attempt to bewitch you. I have no such need or want. To ensnare one such as you would be a disservice not only to yourself, but to me and the rest of humankind. I would not see a tiger beaten and tamed, but running free."

Bayne was stunned by her bluntness, and the end of his sword swayed the slightest bit. But could he trust her? She had not been like her sisters; Valdra had shown no signs of attempting to enslave him. Or were her words merely a game in which she was trying to stay one step ahead of him?

He thrust his sword into its sheath. He was Bayne kul Kanon. He would not learn fear today.

He stepped forward and gripped her proffered hand. It was a strong grip, as strong as Bayne's own. Again he was reminded of the strength the mothering sister had shown. Could these three women be a match for him? Had Bayne had a mistake in his trust?

Valdra grinned, and all Bayne's concerns were swept away. This was a woman with honor, one who would not use guile to attempt to confine him.

She squeezed, then their hands parted.

She took a step back, as did Bayne, the two watching one another.

"I have told you the route to take," Valdra said, nodding in the direction.

"Aye," Bayne said.

Then he turned and walked away.

"Coward!" screamed the temptress. "You are no man! But a man lover!"

Bayne continued walking.

"Please, won't you save me?" pleaded the sister seeking a mate. "I can give you a good life, and a home and a family."

But Bayne did not turn back.

He rounded the corner from which he had come, and the women's voices were no more. Even the crackles of the cooking fire were lost to distance.

Crossing the sward once more, passing the cave entrance without a glance, Bayne's mind paused on Valdra. She had been a good woman, a strong woman. Perhaps once he was finished with Verkanus, once he had found out the secrets he had been promised, then he might return for her.

For now, though, he still had a king to catch.
Chapter V: The Fields

The road was soon found as it had been described to Bayne. He came to the edge of the grass-covered ledge and below he spotted the road. It was bricked once more, and the bricks looked fresh as if lain sometime within the last several summers.

The drop was the distance of three men's height, but that was of no concern to Bayne. He dropped to his knees, clutched the lip of the rocky edge and slung his legs over the side. Hanging there, the distance to fall was narrowed.

He let loose.

And landed on his feet, on the road, none the worse for wear.

He paused to make sure he had not jostled his sword free, then gazed from side to side. By Bayne's calculations, the way to his left seemed to backtrack around the cave of the three sisters. That way was a dirt path. The road to his right was the bricked path, and it appeared to travel in a new direction, the direction Verkanus would have journeyed.

Bayne grinned. He was nearer the emperor than he had been in weeks. The man in black was running out of time.

Pausing no longer, as time was another enemy, Bayne set out once more, his heavy steps taking him along this new road.

The way remained steady and widened along the side of the mountain as Bayne marched. In some places the road was ample enough a small army could have crossed, and Bayne began to wonder who had built such a road, especially this high where clouds were so near Bayne could almost reach up and touch them.

For he had come high, he admitted. His days on the road and his climbing and his trip through the tunnels had brought him higher and higher. Now he could look over the ledge and see naught but gray clouds below. The trees were now invisible to him, and the only break along the horizon were other mountains, white-tipped in the distance. Too, the air had cooled, and here and there frozen ground could be spotted. Bayne bore no cold-weather garb, nor was he in need of such yet, but a night on the road would be a chilly one. Perhaps he would come across another tavern, or maybe another traveler who would share or sell a cloak or blanket.

Or perhaps Bayne would obtain his goal before nightfall.

Shaking his head, Bayne gave up on such thoughts. His goal was all he must focus upon. The cold would come, but that would not stop him. He would march forever to catch Verkanus if he must.

Slowly the road began to rise once more in increments. The ascension was so gradual Bayne figured he must have walked nearly around the entire mountain before climbing a height equal to three-story tower. And the road was wider and wider, barely a road now but almost a field of bricks beneath his feet. Keeping to the center of the way, Bayne could barely throw a rock and have it plummet over the mountain edge.

Still, the mountain itself rose eternal at the center of all, it's upper heights even here remaining invisible within a roaming circle of gray mist.

A sign appeared on the side of the road up near the mountain wall. It was a simple wooden sign made of a post as tall as a man and as thick as his wrist. From a distance, Bayne could make out carved words painted black on the wooden plank of the sign's face.

He made his way over to it.

The sign read, "Stagnation."

Bayne's face screwed up in bewilderment. Was Stagnation the name of a place? Or a thing? Did the sign have some hidden meaning? It seemed an odd name for a place, but not much more unusual than The Knotted Mesh.

Realizing there would be no answers forthcoming by simply staring at a plaque of wood, he made his way past it and continued on.

It seemed a mile or so he must have walked when the ground opened up even wider than before, though the road itself narrowed once more to only a wagon's width. Surrounding the road were flat lands of golden grains swaying beneath the heat of the sun. In the distance, on either side of the road, were fences of rough wood fronting the road itself and leading off to Bayne's left and right as if corrals.

Here the cliff's edge was far enough to Bayne's left he could hardly recognize it as it mingled with the horizon. The mountain proper rose far to the right and continued to climb into the clouds. The surrounding land was large enough and flat enough it seemed Bayne was once more approaching the foot of the mountain. But that could not be. Bayne had already trod a long distance uphill and through caves to find his way here.

The only conclusion was the mountain must be bigger than he had believed. The mountain now appeared to be large enough to sport its own flatlands, which lay before Bayne as proof. Did this mean the mountain was still truly a mountain, or was it something more? Or had magic been involved? Perhaps Verkanus had sprang a trap, somehow sending Bayne across the nether to another mountain on another continent, or perhaps even on another world.

Bayne glanced behind himself. The wide road there continued away into the distance.

No, he was still on the original mountain, what he had come to think of as his mountain. Verkanus may be up to a trick, but Bayne was still confident he was on the mage's path.

He put his booted feet to motion once more.

Soon he came to the corners of the fences on either side of the road. Ahead, past the corners, the two fences faced one another across the road itself. Away in the distance could be seen a tall, wooden house on the left in the center of the field there. A similar structure could be seen on the right in the center of the field there.

A stone's throw away from Bayne was a gate. Two gates, to be precise. One in the fencing on the left and one in the fencing on the right. Leading out from each gate to the road was a footway of pumpkin-colored bricks; on the other side of the gates the footways shot straight across the fields of grain and up to the houses.

Out by the road, on either side of the road, next to where the road and the footways met, there was a bench. Two benches altogether, each facing the other and each made of sturdy oak and painted dark green. Next to each bench was a small table of whitewashed wicker. Atop each table was a metal cup sweating droplets like dew. On each metal cup was a sturdy hand, for each bench also held a man. Two men together, facing one another across the road.

Curious, there was naught to do but continue forward, which is what Bayne did.

As he neared, he could better make out the features and garb of the two fellows seated across from one another.

The man sitting to Bayne's left appeared to be about middle age with a grizzled chin and one eye larger than the other. His stomach was the size and shape of a small barrel, and could not be concealed beneath the tattered, baggy tunic covering his arms and chest. His legs were layered in grimy wrappings above leather sandals, from which protruded his rather large, round and stubby toes, most with long, dirty nails. He lounged back on his bench with his legs stretched before him into the road and one arm thrown over the back of his seat.

The other man was a contrast in opposites. He was a little older than the other fellow, with a thin, white beard guarding his lower chin and wisps of white hair poking from beneath his scarlet, floppy hat made of a heavy material brocaded with images of flowers. He too was corpulent, though his stomach was not the size nor shape of his colleague's, but rather that of a large pouch in the shape of a ball. Around this ball bulged a doublet without arms, the cloth heavy and the color that of the late-night sky. Beneath this doublet was a silky shirt of the palest yellow which flared out beneath the man's thick latigo belt above white stockings that ran down his knobby, stick-thin legs into simple, soft walking shoes that matched the shade of his vest.

Bayne stopped just before crossing in front of the two and stared at them, from one to the other and then back again.

It was obvious they had been in conversation but had stopped talking upon the intrusion of this stranger.

"I am looking for a man," Bayne said.

The one on the left snickered. "Wouldn't have taken you for that sort."

The one on the right scowled at his companion.

For sake of learning information, Bayne ignored the tactless mirth and the grimace. "He would have ridden past in the last day. Black robes. Black hair."

"I believe he had a streak of white through his hair," said the one on the right.

Bayne nodded. "Aye."

"Haven't seen him." The man to the left said.

The other fellow glared at the one opposite him.

Bayne focused his attention on the richly-garbed fellow and pointed down the road. "Did he continue to follow the road?"

"He did," the man said, nodding.

The other fellow, the one in the shabby clothing, laughed again, harder than before. Now it was Bayne's turn to glare at him.

"Don't mind him," the richly-dressed man said. "He's not right in the head. And he's lazy."

The other stopped laughing. "I am not lazy!"

"Then why is your master doing all the work!" The wealthy one pointed past the other seated figure to the field beyond.

Bayne's eyes followed the pointing finger. For the first time he noticed a man some distance away in the field. This fellow was pushing a wood and iron plow being pulled by a mule. From the looks of things, the working man was not having an easy time with his labors. The ground being plowed was dry and hard and full of rocks.

"I hurt my back last week," the shabby, seated fellow said as way of explanation. "My master is a good master, not like some I know." He rolled his eyes.

"Your master is an idiot!"

Bayne glanced at the two. then shrugged. Whatever business was going on between these men was none of his concern. He marched past them and continued along the road.

"Wait!" It was the rich man.

Bayne turned and looked back.

"You must have walked a long way," the man said, standing on his stick legs. "Allow me to offer you the hospitality of my fair home. Surely you are in need of food and rest."

The man now pointed at the other field, the one that had been behind him when sitting. Bayne looked in that direction. The house there stood unchanged, but now there was a fourth man, this one scything the grain with an iron-headed tool. He too appeared hard at labor, his arms constantly working back and forth. His clothing was more like that of the poorer man seated by the road.

"Never mind him," the rich man said, waving a hand at the new worker. "That's just my servant."

Bayne turned as if to leave once more. "I thank you for your hospitality, but I must be on my way."

"I know where the man in black is going!" the rich man shouted.

Bayne paused again and looked back. The rich man appeared almost frantic, as if weighty concerns were upon him.

By comparison, the shabby fellow was grinning. He leaned back further on his bench and retrieved a clay flask from a pocket. He popped out the cork and began to drink heavily. All the while, that grin kept growing wider and wider.

Bayne walked back to the two, halting mere yards from them. He stared at the one dressed as a worker. "What is going on here?"

"I told you, he's not right in the head," the other man said.

"Hush!" Bayne glared at the rich one, then turned back to the poorer one. "What is happening here?"

The drinker lowered his flask and popped the cork back in. "Why are you asking me?"

"Because you're smiling like an idiot," Bayne said.

"See, I told you," the rich one said.

Bayne glared at him. The fellow shut up.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the poorer of the two said, bouncing his flask in a hand. "I'm just sitting here minding my own business with my little bottle."

"The two of you are up to no good," Bayne said. He shifted to stare at the wealthy fellow again. "I suppose you were offered a bag of gold."

"Me?" The rich one took a step back, placing a hand across his heart as if taking an oath. "I have no idea of what you are speaking."

Bayne's eyes narrowed. A fist tightened at his side. "I believe you do."

"If you don't believe me, ask my servant there." The wealthy-garbed man pointed toward the worker in the field behind him.

"Ha!" The poorer fellow slapped at his knee. "That's a good one. As if your slave wouldn't lie for you."

"He's not a slave!"

"Might as well be!"

The two men glared at one another, their chest's heaving and their teeth grinding.

"This is nonsense." Bayne turned away once more.

"Wait!" It was the rich man again. He hobbled around to one side of Bayne. "Alright! Alright! The fellow in black offered gold for your capture. I admit it."

Bayne halted and stared at the man. "But not for my death?"

A sheepish look spread across the rich man's face.

"Of course for your death," said the poorer man. "He offered a bag of gold to anyone who would slay you. Said he'd take your head as proof."

"Why tell me now?" Bayne glanced from one fellow to the other.

The rich man smiled. "You are a stout fellow, strong and hardy. I could use someone like you."

"I'm not interested." Bayne took a step away.

"I'd pay handsomely!"

Bayne paused and stared. "I have no need of your gold."

"There must be something you want," the rich man said. "I could use you in my fields. Why, a big, strong man like you could do the work of ten in a day's time. In a week you'd make me more than that pittance offered by the man you are following. Name your price."

Bayne sneered. "All I want is to catch my prey."

"What about a horse?" the other fellow said from his bench. "You're on foot. Maybe a good horse would help."

Bayne didn't bother looking at him. "I have no need of a horse."

The rich man slapped Bayne on his solid, chain-clad chest. "Of course not, a big, strong ox such as you." He glared at the seated fellow, then back to Bayne with a grin on his lips. "But something else perhaps? Women? Clothing? A new sword?"

"You have nothing to offer that I would want," Bayne said. Then he turned and walked away.

"There has to be something!" the rich man shouted behind the departing warrior. "Everyone has a price."

The poor man only laughed and sucked at his flask before emptying it and tossing it onto the bench next to himself.

Bayne walked on.

The rich man once more ambled after Bayne. "But you --"

"Cease!" Bayne spun to face the man and reached up to half-draw his sword from its sheath. "Another word and I'll lop off your head."

The rich man visibly gulped.

The poor man slapped his knee again and chortled.

"I'll lop off both your heads," Bayne said. "I should anyway. It would leave the world with a less annoying pair. One of you working your servant nearly to death --"

The poor man nodded here.

"\-- and the other so lazy his master has to do his job for him!"

The rich man nodded here.

"Enough!" Bayne shouted. "Not everything is about gold!" He slammed his sword back home and turned and walked away.

The two men were quiet and did not try to follow this time, though they did give one another knowing glances and shrugs.

Ahead of Bayne, the road rose in a slight hill, the mountain proper rising far off to the right. The fences remained on the left and right of the road, as did the fields beyond, but soon the antics of the two men could no longer be heard nor seen behind Bayne. Not that he was bothering to look or listen.

Presently another figure appeared alongside the road, a man standing in the distance next to a small, turned over field. As Bayne neared him, he could make out the fellow was dressed in simple, homespun clothing, a tunic, drawstring pants and battered boots. He gripped a long spade and leaned against the handle, the iron of the tool resting in the dirt beside the road. Sweat was running down his face, though he did not appear overly tired. If anything, he seemed somewhat fresh and pleasant. He smiled as Bayne drew near.

"Hello there!" this new man shouted.

Bayne said nothing as he approached. Two idiots seemed enough for one day.

The stranger chuckled when Bayne came up to him, but the laughter seemed not pointed toward the big man with the sword.

"I see you met those two down the road," the fellow said.

Bayne stopped and nodded.

"My apologies," the man said. "They have a tendency to view the world from quite narrow positions."

Bayne nodded again.

"I would not have stopped you," the man went on, "but just this morning I came upon a fellow who required of me to give you a message."

Bayne raised an eyebrow.

"He said he would meet you at the top of the mountain," the man said, "and he said he would not be alone."

"Anything else?" Bayne asked.

"No, I don't believe so," the man said with a smile. "He said a big, well-muscled chap such as yourself would be along. He said you'd carry a sword and had no hair atop your head."

"My thanks," Bayne said, then he moved past and continued on his way.

After a few steps, Bayne stopped and glanced back. "One question."

The stranger had turned to watch Bayne. "Yes?"

"Before I reached those other two," Bayne said, "I came across a sign."

"Stagnation."

"Yes. What does it mean?"

"It's the name of the farm," the man said, "the farm split by two fields and two ways of thought. Unfortunately, those who domesticate the farm have limited themselves to only two ways of thinking based upon material goods."

Bayne nodded. "Again, my thanks."

Then the big man walked on, showing little concern for the philosophies and economics of these farmers, his sword rattling above his shoulder.

### Chapter VI: Mages Three

The day grew late and the sun began to sink beneath the clouds that made up Bayne's horizon. Long shadows stretched across the mountain and the road, hiding the warrior in gloom and chill.

As always, Bayne walked on.

He walked through the night, never stopping to rest or even to catch his breath for a moment. Sometime in the darkness, he could feel the bricks beneath his booted feet becoming more and more rare. Eventually he was striding on cold rocks and flat stone and sometimes dirt and sand.

It was in the morning, as the sun showed itself once more, Bayne could make out that the road he had been walking had narrowed to little more than a mountain path. The broad expanses of the fields were now replaced by what appeared to be little more than a trail possibly used by the rare mountain creature, perhaps goats or lions. Bayne had spotted no such beasts, but the trail itself proved that someone or something had at some time made their way over the very ground.

The path here also turned steep, forcing the big man to lean so far forward he was practically climbing more than walking in many places. At times his chest was mere inches from the ground and he was forced to use his hands to steady himself or to pull forward.

Whereas the day before the mountain's top had been distant and hidden beneath a haze, now the mountain was right on top of Bayne. He was up against it, nearly part of it, step by step and inch by inch. The pinnacle was now above him, and though still he could not make it out due to the heights and the nearness of the mountain's wall upon him, Bayne could sense the summit as if it were a living, breathing thing soaring above on the ether.

His travels were nearing an end, and the unstoppable warrior discerned such.

As if to show his perceptions were not mislaid, the mountain trail eventually flattened out again and ran straight away from the ledge and between high snow-draped outcroppings like giant rocky fingers clawing at the sky. Here walls of solid stone grew out of the mists on either side of him.

But the pathway ahead was straight and true.

Then it became a climb again, nearly as steep as before, but only a short distance before the stony walls were passed and Bayne found himself on flat ground once more.

The clouds and mists evaporated before his eyes and ahead was the apex, the highest heights of the mountain. It was a flat stretch little more than the size of a village, with splashes of snow here and there. A single tree, young and only tall enough to provide weak shade beneath the day's sun, was rooted off to one side.

Three figures were seated on ancient, wide, flat stones in the center of the grounds. The three were men, all.

The first to draw Bayne's attention was the tallest of the three, directly facing him. A black cloak wrapped this man's shoulders and his long, murky hair was marked by a stripe of white.

Verkanus. The mage. The Pursian Emperor. His steed was nowhere to be found.

The wizard king seemed to pay Bayne no mind. He sat and stared, unblinking, as did the other two men. They formed a triangle, their faces to one another, each just within arms' reach of the other. They were so still Bayne would have believed they were statues carved from the very mountain if not for the slight rising and falling of their chests.

Of the other two men, both were familiar.

The nearest to Bayne sat at an angle so the warrior saw more of his back than his front, but Bayne would never forget the plain, unassuming face of the Ashalic priest Pedrague, a man already considered a saint by many and at one time almost a friend to Bayne. He wore a simple brown robe of rough wool, the hood hanging back behind a head covered with little more than a round patch of auburn hair.

The third man sat with his side facing Bayne. This one was the least familiar, though he had been seen the most recent. He was the old man at the village that was not quite a village at the foot of the mountain. He was the stranger who had greeted Bayne upon leaving Stagnation. He was Algr. He was Masterson. He was even Valdra. Pieces of all these had come together to form the features of this man in a mixture not altogether unappealing despite its unusual conglomeration. He was dressed in a plain tunic, plain breeches and sandals. A cloak of a heavy homespun material was suspended from his neck and dangled down his back.

He was the first to move, the first to look at Bayne. He smiled.

Bayne blinked. It was difficult to stare at this man. His features were known, but they seemed to change even as Bayne stared at him. One moment the proud, aged features of the mercenary Masterson were staring out from beneath this man's grayed head, the next moment the quizzical look was present of the man from the village that was not quite a village. As soon as Bayne's eyes would focus on the fellow's features, they would shift and evaporate as mist then form together once more with a different visage; it was a constant change, not giving the eye a moment to concentrate on one appearance.

Bayne blinked and shook his head.

"Welcome, Bayne kul Kanon," the man said.

At these words, the other two appeared to come to life. Both looked to Bayne as if they had just risen from a deep sleep and only now were taking notice of the huge figure of the warrior.

Bayne nodded to the speaker but remained silent. He had found his prey, but the others were unexpected, as was the situation. Better not to speak until he knew more.

"I see you finally caught up to me," Verkanus spat.

Pedrague chuckled. "Did you have any doubts?"

The king turned his dark gaze upon the priest. "He should not have come. He is not welcome here."

"Of course he is welcome," Pedrague said.

"All are welcome," said the man with the shifting face.

Bayne shrugged. "Welcome or not, here I stand."

The face-changer asked, "To what purpose?"

The warrior pointed a finger at Verkanus. "I am here for that one. He has much to answer."

Pedrague grinned and eased back on his stony seat as if to get a better look at Bayne. "Yes, he does, indeed. Which is one of the reasons we three have gathered here today, and are thankful you have arrived to join our group."

"He is not welcome," repeated the king.

"I care not for the reason you three have met," Bayne said. "I came here only for Verkanus."

"You seek answers," pointed out the one with the varying features.

Bayne nodded.

Verkanus spat to one side. "Then ask your questions, fool. I have business with these two, and wish to conclude it today."

The other two men sat quietly.

Bayne was surprised. Could it be this simple? Ask his questions and receive the answers? This seemed not likely after the extent to which the emperor had gone to prevent his being followed by the warrior.

Verkanus stood. "Ask your questions or leave. My time here is limited."

"Why have you been offering gold for my death?" Bayne asked.

Verkanus chuckled, his white, perfect teeth showing between twin, pale lips. "Because I owe you nothing. And it is my way to put aside that which I find annoying. You come to me seeking answers to questions. I do not have your answers."

"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 the 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.

He had dealt this carnage with his own hands, yet it had seemed to take only minutes. He would have sworn he had slain no more than a dozen men, perhaps as many as a score, and then the enemy had withdrawn before him. How could he not remember all this slaughter? It was a mystery to Bayne. The blood letting had seemed to go on for some little while, but not to this extent. Bayne's only conclusion was the bloodlust had overcome him, shortening his memories of the deadly events. He wasn't surprised. He was a born killer, a natural killer, and none could stand before him.

The clatter of horse's hooves striking stone and broken, armored bodies brought Bayne around once more.

Off in the distance, near where a group of the Trodan's best had formed into a phalanx of spearman, a single horseman advanced, the soldiers' formation opening enough for the man to ride through. The rider steered his beast directly for Bayne, taking his time in his approach as if sizing up the one who had slaughtered so many of his men.

The rider was obviously an officer. His burly chest and legs were sheltered in bright, shining silvered plates. Black chain hung about his shoulders and arms. His steel helmet was in the shape of a wolf's head, the animal's jaws open to reveal a stern face within. Strapped to the tall man's back was a humongous sword, long and wide and impossible to use but for the strongest of men. A diamond-tipped lance rode in a cup to one side of the saddle, it's aim at the darkening sky above. A shield of brightest bronze hung on the other side of the saddle, ready for use if the rider should need it.

Bayne simply stood his ground and waited for this man to near.

The Trodan rider took his time, his horse little more than prancing across the thousands of dead and dying. He showed no concern in his animal's steps, not watching where the heavy hooves would land, and that combined with his unyielding gaze gave him an air of haughtiness.

Bayne smirked at the straight back and solid stare of the officer as the horse was reined to a halt some little distance from the big warrior.

"You are witness to Proconsul Lucius Sulla Tallerus," announced the rider with a booming voice. "Prepare to meet your doom, minion of Verkanus."

With that the rider slid from his saddle and whipped around his large, two-handed sword before slapping away his steed.

Bayne saw little reason to share words. "Fair enough." He marched forward.

Swords, long and short, twirled in fists to clash against one another in a resonant scraping of sparks. The blow knocked the proconsul back several steps, but he remained on his feet, his heavy weapon gripped in both hands before him.

Bayne winced as the flash of sparks faded from his vision, but he stood his ground.

"You are mighty," Tallerus said, "but righteousness shall prevail here today."

Bayne wasted no words. He jumped forward, feinting to the right with his shorter blade.

The Trodan brought his own weapon around to knock aside his opponent's thrust, but too late saw the attack had been a ruse. Bayne's shield caught him in the face, flattening his nose and splitting his lower lip. Blood splashed as Tallerus was forced back another step.

Bayne kept up his momentum, whirling about with his shield overhead, coming in low with a long slash. Tallerus barely had time to leap above the shorter weapon, but in the air twisted his own sword around so its point came down hard against his foe's shield.

The shield buckled and cracked, split nearly in two.

Bayne slung out his left arm, sending his broken safeguard spiraling away.

He only managed to bring up his short sword in time to obstruct another attack from the Trodan.

Bayne then stepped back, his first withdrawal of any kind of the day. He did not fear, nor was he tired or wounded. He took that step to give himself a moment to grin, to show this enemy he had respect for him.

Then steel crashed against steel, and this time the flying sparks lit up the night as if an explosion. Yet again, Tallerus found himself forced to retreat a few steps, and yet again Bayne forced the attack, plowing ahead with his shorter weapon whirling about in front of him.

The Trodan's eyes were agog at the speed of his enemy's blade, the smaller sword bouncing around left and right and high and low and all around this big, muscular figure who had slain thousands. Tallerus could not match the speed of the dancing sword before him. He withdrew several more paces.

Bayne darted in, his short blade thrashing out and sliding through the chain layering the Trodan's right arm, sending links flying and blood spurting.

Tallerus cried out, his head thrown back to scream to the heavens.

The short sword came in again, this time from below, launching up with all the force Bayne's muscled arms could bring. The blade slid in beneath hanging silvered plates, through black chains and oiled leather to find a home in the Trodan's groin.

There was a crack within and a jerk of the proconsul's body. His eyes opened wide for a moment, then the orbs rolled back in his head as his mouth formed into a silent scream. His body shuddered and his arms curled up to his chest, dropping his large weapon at his feet.

He was dead by the time he dropped into the mud.

Bayne stood there breathing heavily, staring down at the fallen enemy. He nodded, a final salute to the one warrior who had given him a true contest that day, then tossed aside his short sword. Reaching down, he lifted the proconsul's two-handed weapon by its handle and stared at the fine steel of the blade and the leather cords wrapping the grip. This was a fine weapon, a weapon befitting the man who now held it.

Smiling once more, Bayne decided he would keep this sword. He knelt and rolled over the Trodan's corpse, unbuckling the straps of the leather belt and sheath that had cased the huge weapon. Within minutes, the sword's leather band was fastened about Bayne's back and chest, the hefty blade resting in its familiar sheath.

A flare of light along the horizon caused the big man to look up from the final buckles crossing his chest. The brightness was at first that of a new morning sun, and though Bayne was not as yet familiar with this world, he did not believe morning was near.

As quickly as it had appeared, the light sunk down to a bare glow. It still remained far away at the horizon amidst the mingling horde of Trodan soldiers, all seemingly fearful to approach this strange warrior who had slain their general, but now the light bounced slightly from side to side.

It was obvious to Bayne whatever the source of this luminescence, it was on horseback. That would account for the bobbling of the far glow.

Gradually the light grew nearer, and after several minutes Bayne could make out the rider and his ride, a wobbly donkey that appeared too old to be of service despite the figure and the small packs it carried. Of the man on the back of the poor beast, he was a plain-looking fellow of an age not easy to determine; he could have been in his late twenties or his early fifties. His chin was bare beneath flat features, and his head was topped with a mass of short brown tresses. His garments were of a simple fashion, a dusty robe with the hood riding behind the man's neck. About his midriff was wrapped a course rope. The source of the flowering light was from another rope, this one short and ending in a noose, hanging from where it was nailed atop a tall staff the rider carried high.

Bayne did not know this man, but that inner knowledge deep in the back of his mind told him the fellow wore the garb of a religious principal, a cleric or perhaps a monk. Bayne too did not recognize the short noose, but it seemed to him to be a symbol, a sign of importance. Was this another Trodan challenger? It seemed unlikely. But Bayne would be on his guard. Verkanus might not be the only mage in this war.

The rider lowered his staff and the light died away just as the donkey came to a halt within rock-tossing distance of the warrior with the large sword.

"Hail," said the rider, dropping his reins and holding up his free hand.

Bayne nodded back.

The priestly fellow climbed out of his saddle and approached gradually, pulling his animal along with him and walking with his staff. "It would seem we are at an impasse."

"You wear no armor and carry no arms other than your stick," Bayne said. "Leave the field of battle and no harm will come to you."

"And if I do not?"

"Then you are a fool who will die along with the rest of these Trodan slavers."

"Slavers?" The man's face screwed up in confusion and curiosity.

"You heard me correctly."

"We Trodans are no slavers," the priestly fellow said. "It is a repugnant practice and against the laws of our land."

"I have been told otherwise," Bayne said.

The stranger shook his head. "You have been ill informed, then. I suppose it was Emperor Verkanus who told you thus?"

"It was," Bayne admitted.

"He is a deceiver, that man."

"I know not," Bayne said, "and I see no reason to trust your word over his."

"Well." The other man gave a short bow, little more than a bob of the head. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Pedrague, high minister of Holy Ashal, the God Who Walked Among Men."

Bayne scoffed. "Your gods mean nothing to me, little priest."

Pedrague seemed taken aback by the sturdiness of the warrior's words. "It would appear Verkanus has chosen well in his champion. I assume you are supposed to be a demon he brought forth, though I've never witnessed such a demon as you."

"No demon. To my knowledge, I am only a man."

The priest's gaze narrowed. "You, my friend, are obviously much more than a man. No man could leave a swath of death behind him such as you have done."

"Nor am I your friend, priest," Bayne said. "Is there a meaning behind your words? Is there a reason we are speaking before I crush your skull and take your head from your body?"

Pedrague chuckled. "And a moment ago you were promising no harm to myself."

"Only if you left the field of battle. Which, so far, your mouth has not allowed you to do."

The priest's laughter died swiftly. "I am no swordsman, nor a soldier. I am here to speak to you of the impasse we are facing."

"I see no impasse."

"That does not mean there is not one," Pedrague said. "Yes, you have dealt much death, and likely could continue to do so. However, eventually, probably after many Trodan deaths, the generals and their mages would find some way to halt you."

Bayne snickered.

"Oh, they might not destroy you," Pedrague went on, "but it is assured they would find some way of dealing with you. Sealing magics, perhaps, or some form of barrier that would impede your movement. Have no doubt about that, my friend. The Trodans are the most resourceful people in all the lands."

"I have my doubts," Bayne said. "Thus, I see no impasse."

"That being the case," Pedrague said, "I am here to appeal to you to step aside and allow this war to continue without your intrusion."

"If Verkanus had summoned a demon, would it do as such?" Bayne asked, then provided his own answer. "I think not."

"As you have pointed out," Pedrague said, "you are not a demon. You are a man, though an uncommon one. I hope to appeal to your sense of honor."

Bayne puffed out his chest. "What makes you believe I have a sense of honor?"

"Most men of the sword do," the priest of Ashal said. "That, or they are madmen who thrive on the bloodletting of others. You do not strike me as a madman."

The big warrior chuckled once more. "I slay one of their officers, and the Trodans send me a priest who will not shut up. This is an unusual strategy."

"No strategy. I had to beg the generals to allow me to come here. I wish to spare much death this day, and to bring Verkanus his rightful judgment."

Bayne spat. "Who are you to judge?"

"Me?" The priest seemed taken back by the accusation, then his eyes grew dark and hooded. "I judge as do all good men who have suffered under the wrath of the emperor. It was Verkanus himself who slew his own son, Ashal, hanging him from a high tree. It was Verkanus who rode forth across Ursia and Pursia, bringing flame and death and decay and his bedeviled magics to all who would not bow to a knee before him. I stand here as a man who has lost much, my family, my father, my mother, my wife, my children, even my god, at the hands of Verkanus. Who am I to judge? I am a man destroyed by evil and reborn through the words of the Almighty Ashal. I am a man who will stand with righteousness against the evils of this world, and there is none more evil than Verkanus himself!"

The big warrior watched Pedrague's chest heaving after such speech and such emotion. Still, Bayne crossed his arms and grinned.

"I suppose now you will mock me further," the priest said.

"No." Bayne shook his head. "It is obvious you are a man who believes in his cause."

Pedrague drooped, suggesting he was nearing an end to his words with the emperor's champion. "Where do we go from here?"

"What would you have of me?" Bayne asked. "Do you believe I can simply step aside?"

"Little hope of that," Pedrague said, but then a glint appeared in his eyes. "However, if I were to prove to you the tyrant's treachery, would you step aside then?"

Bayne sighed as he reached over his shoulder and drew forth his new, lengthy sword. "If Verkanus has dealt falsely with me, then I shall find my own vengeance against him."

"There is another way," Pedrague said, little above a whisper.

The tone of the cleric's words were different than before, final, and this put Bayne on edge. The very air felt more chill, and the torch lights of the distant army dimmed. Bayne realized there was a subtle magic at work, the priest's magic. So far the man had dealt openly and fairly with Bayne, but those last words and the magic in the air showed the situation had changed. Whether or not the priest meant Bayne ill, they had spoken long enough. Bayne had an army to destroy. It was time he returned to his bloody work.

"No more words," the warrior said.

Then he bound forward, within striking distance of the cleric, and with both hands hefted his mighty sword overhead.

Pedrague lashed out with his staff.

The blow was an explosion. Wood cracked against steel, there was a flash of light and Bayne found himself flying through the air.

He landed in a heap of dead bodies, his already gore-covered frame once more layered in fresh red. Broken bones and fallen weapons and joints of armor scrapped against his bare arms and into the leathers of his legs. The wind was knocked from him, and he lay there a moment staring up at the graying sky, an early morning sky.

Bayne blinked, and suddenly he understood. In but a moment a thousand images and sounds and scents and emotions washed over him as if he were laying on a beach and covered by wave after wave. He saw the past, far and recent, and Verkanus was central to everything he witnessed. The king stood in golden armor by the ledge of a cliff, a kneeling woman nearby crying and reaching for a boy who stared out across a desolate valley beyond the cliff; the boy jumped off the precipice and the woman screamed and the king laughed. A flash. Verkanus once more, this time in scarlet robes, in a cave or dungeon or some underground pit; he used chalk to scrawl impure images upon the stone floor as he bargained with reptilian beasts that stood on legs as if men. Another flash. The king atop a hill, a mighty tree next to him from which was strung a length of rope; at the end of the rope was a noose, and hanging from the noose was a young man... the boy! It was the boy who had jumped from the cliff, now grown to be a man. But he was unmoving, hanging there with his feet inches above the ground. About the hill and the king was a throng, a mass of shrieking and shouting people, all calling for the youth's death and for their emperor to lead them to... something. Flash. Men covered in oil and set aflame before their families. Screaming elders butchered, limb by limb, in front of their kin. Babes ripped from the arms of their mothers and their tiny skulls dashed against rocks. Children impaled alive.

Flash.

Bayne sat up slowly and rubbed at the back of his head. To his knowledge, he had never been struck so hard. It had hurt. For a moment, he had felt pain to his spine and his skull. The moment was past. But the visions in his mind, those he could not dismiss so easily. The emotions were the worst of it. He had seen Verkanus juxtaposed upon various scenes, witnessed it visually, but the roiling of the mad king's inner self was what ate away at Bayne. The emperor was evil. If any man could be labeled such, it was Verkanus. His armies had raged across continents, torturing and murdering along the way, all for the king's glory. He had slain his own son, slipping the noose over the young man's head himself. And why? Jealousy. The boy had grown into godhood, and Verkanus would not suffer that. The emotions and events went beyond that, however. Verkanus craved all. He yearned for total domination, to control everything and everyone. He was not above any offense in seeking such. He would do anything.

Including lie.

Bayne had been betrayed. His might had been purchased upon a promise of untruths. He had been leery of the emperor from the beginning, but had grasped at the slightest hint of aid in discovering his own truth. Verkanus had brought him here, thus Verkanus could send him back from wherever he had come, or Verkanus could at least discover who or what Bayne was.

But that was not too be.

Bayne knew this now, felt the coldness of it inside himself as if his bones were iron.

He glanced about and found his sword next to him. He retrieved the heavy weapon and gradually stood, then returned the sword to its home on his back.

Pedrague still stood where he had, now more than a dozen steps away, his staff gripped in both hands across his chest.

"So, the priest bares his teeth," Bayne said.

"Ashal lends me his strength," Pedrague said, the top of his weapon aglow once more, "but I hope he has lent me his wisdom as well."

Bayne nodded. "He has."

"You saw?"

"I witnessed."

"What did you see?"

"Your god," Bayne said, "when he was still in mortal form. He was but a youth, barely more than a score of summers."

"Yes," Pedrague said. "That was how it was."

"Verkanus executed him, envious of the boy's growing power."

The priest knelt on one knee and lowered his head, the staff still alight above him. "It is to my shame I was not present, that I could not save He who walked among us."

Bayne walked forward, each step measured as to not raise false suspicions.

The priest did not look up. His head remaining facing the blooded earth of the battlefield.

Bayne halted in front of the kneeling figure and raised a hand, gripping it into a shaking fist. But then the hand opened, and he placed it with gentleness upon the priest's head.

"It is time to rise," the warrior said. "I will find the emperor and I will slay him, freeing your world of his corruption. You have your god's magic, and once I am finished with Verkanus, you can discover what I wish to know."

Pedrague looked up, his eyes misted. "Ashal is all powerful, but I am but a weak man. I do not know if I can do as you want."

Bayne nodded once more. "At least you are being truthful with me. That is more than Verkanus gave. Stand, and hunt with me."

Pedrague arose, and the two went into the pit to find the emperor, but the evil man had long fled.

That was the extent of Bayne's memories of that night. He had soon parted with the mage-priest, the warrior realizing he could not be accepted by the Trodans, not after he had spilled the blood of so many of their kin. Long years would pass, many filled with blood and fire and steel. Bayne traveled across lands of many climes and peoples, through other battles and wars, always on the trail of Verkanus, his own name becoming a legend along with that of the emperor. Through it all, the Trodans believed the emperor to be dead, killed, the body missing during that final battle. Bayne had always known otherwise. Verkanus no more raised his head, but he left traces which the warrior could follow.

Bayne had walked.

Then he had climbed.

"I remember."

"Then it must be plain I have no answers for you," Verkanus said from his stone seat.

Bayne turned toward the emperor. "Your magic must be able to reveal something."

Verkanus barked a laugh, holding up his hands in a pose of surrender. "Believe me, during the spare moments I have had between avoiding Trodan regiments, I have spun more than a few spells in an attempt to learn of you, Bayne kul Kanon. All attempts were futile."

"You lie," Bayne said.

"No," Pedrague answered for the king. "He speaks the truth. But don't believe for a moment he did so for your benefit. He wanted to know who you are, Bayne, in hopes of finding some manner to defeat you."

"Is this true?" the big man asked.

Verkanus nodded. "I see no reason to lie. You have caught up with me. I suppose we will duel now, I with my magics, you with your sword."

"There will be no duel this day," spoke he of the shifting face.

The others glanced to the man.

"We three agreed to a truce for our gathering," the man continued. "Our temporary accord also includes Bayne."

"I did not agree to such," Verkanus said.

"You do not need to." Glaring eyes peered out from the changing faces as if they could bore into the mage-king's soul. "It is my word and my will. Or else our truce will end here and now."

The emperor lowered his gaze.

Bayne stepped closer to the seated triangle and rounded upon the unnamed man. "For what purpose was this truce?"

"We had much to discuss," Pedrague said.

Bayne glanced to the priest, then back to the other man. "What sort of discussion is this, three men meeting atop this mountain? Verkanus and Pedrague I know to be men of magic. Are you a wizard, too?"

The man's features altered again, several times in a matter of seconds. The faces that looked out were once more familiar to Bayne, but from an earlier time before he came to the mountain, from a time before he even remembered existing.

"You?" Bayne spoke out. "You were the boy who jumped from the cliff's edge? The youth hanging from the tree? You are Verkanus's son? The living god?"

The man answered, "I was all those things. No more."

Bayne turned to face Pedrague. "This man is your god?"

"He was," the priest said, bowing his head low. "He is."

"No," Ashal said. "I lay no claims to godhood."

Verkanus jumped to his feet, causing Bayne to reach up and place a hand on his sword. "You fool!" the king screamed in the god's face. "You were worshipped as divinity! You had thousands before you, worshipping you, willing to lay down their lives for you, but you turned your back on all of it!"

Ashal's face finally settled into one set of features, those of his former self as a young man, simple but handsome with a dark head of hair. He motioned for Bayne to lower his arm.

"You were my father in that life, Verkanus," the god said, "but remind yourself that is no longer so. Your jealousies are beyond touching me now. Please, sit, and we will continue."

The emperor's brow was furrowed and wet, his eyes wide and red, his chest heaving, but after another glare at his former offspring, he managed to calm himself, his breathing returning to normal, and he sat once more.

"Good," Ashal said. He turned to Bayne. "You must forgive my former birth father. He has never grown to love the fact his son was chosen and not himself."

"Chosen?"

"To be a god," Pedrague cut in.

"No." Ashal gave a sharp glance to the priest, a glance which softened almost immediately. "In my former life, I was the first true mage, a wielder of magic who did not have to resort to rituals and sacrifices."

Bayne shook his head and closed his eyes briefly. "This is confusing. And I do not see what it has to do with me."

"It has much to do with you," Ashal said.

The warrior stared down at the man. "Are you a god?"

"There are no gods," Verkanus said.

"Of course there's a god," Pedrague said.

Ashal grinned. "Perhaps there is a god. But if so, I am not one."

Bayne grimaced, confusion roiling around in his head. A god who wasn't a god, who had been a man but was hung from a tree. Yet here he was seemingly alive and well sitting atop this mountain. None of it made sense.

"It makes sense from our point of view," Ashal said, waving a hand at the other two.

"Now you are looking into my mind," Bayne said.

"My apologies." Ashal grinned. "It was an accident, a mere reading of your surface thoughts. I will limit myself from doing so again."

"Good," Bayne said. God or not, undying or not, Bayne would not long tolerate another reading his very thoughts and turning them back upon him.

The god-who-was-not-a-god grinned all the wider, but said nothing.

"You have still not told me why you three are here," Bayne said. "Nor have you explained what I have to do with all this."

Verkanus snickered. "We were waiting to see if you were going to try and kill me."

"Try?" Bayne asked, his hands at his sides tensing into fists.

Pedrague held up a hand to belay any assault by the warrior. "Verkanus is teasing you. Our purpose for being here is a complex one."

"Explain," Bayne said.

"We have gathered to seek a balance," Ashal said, "a balance between good and evil and... a nonpartisan viewpoint."

"I do not understand," the warrior said.

"Of course you don't, you dolt!" Verkanus nearly shouted. "You're an oaf with more brains than brawn!"

Bayne raised a fist before the emperor. "Remember that you have broken a pact with me. By rights I should at the least pummel you senseless. If your insults continue, I'll let my sword do my talking."

Verkanus eased back on his seat and folded his arms, his lips a cruel smile.

"Bayne," Ashal said, his voice comforting but also seeking the big man's attention.

The warrior lowered his fist and stared at the god.

"Verkanus is immortal," Ashal explained. "He cannot be killed. So please, ignore his posturing, as violence upon him will accomplish little."

"Besides, there's our truce," the king said with spite.

Bayne rounded on Verkanus once more. "I agreed to no truce, nor would I have."

The king snarled. Bayne snarled right back.

"This is getting us nowhere," Pedrague pointed out. "We were speaking of a balance."

Bayne pulled back from thrashing the emperor and tuned his attention to the others.

"Yes," Ashal said. "The last few score years have been tumultuous ones for this world, in no small part due to the actions of Verkanus here."

The emperor's dark grin grew wider.

"With the execution of my former self a little more than two decades ago," Ashal went on, "the events of this world reached a turning point. The future is being weighed, and the path it will take is being decided."

Bayne waved a hand over the triangle of seated men. "By you three?"

"Not all of us," Ashal said.

The warrior glanced to the god. "You mentioned a balance between good and evil. It's obvious Verkanus represents the evils forces. Does that mean Pedrague represents the good?"

"No," Pedrague said. "I am here merely to provide a mortal viewpoint, and as a recorder of events. I have no direct say in this matter."

"I represent the side of good in this debate," Ashal said, pointing a finger at Bayne. "You are our neutral party, the one who holds the future in balance."

"Me?" Bayne took a step back in astonishment. "I have nothing to do with this world. For all I know, I am not from these lands."

"Exactly," Ashal pointed out. "You are a true neutral party, the balancing factor. You have no biases in helping to decide the prospects for this world."

Pedrague stood and motioned toward the stone seat he had vacated. "Please, Bayne kul Kanon, join your rightful place."

The warrior glanced at the flat rock. "I prefer to stand."

Verkanus cackled.

Ashal hissed, quieting the king. "What do you find amusing?" the god asked of the emperor.

"Him," Verkanus said, nodding toward Bayne. "He's too obstinate to be involved with this. Why trust him with our decisions? Besides, he's a slayer of men, a killer. Why should such a man be considered impartial?"

"I have been wondering the same," Bayne said, for once ignoring the emperor's slights as he pointed to Verkanus and then Ashal. "I am no immortal, unlike you two, and I have whetted my sword on many a man's entrails. Some would consider my actions less than good."

"But you are immortal," Pedrague said. "Did you not know this?"

"Immortal?" Bayne said. "I heal swiftly, but I am not immortal."

"You are," Ashal said. "It's another reason you were chosen for our gathering."

"Chosen?" Bayne said. Revelation upon revelation was twisting the big man's thoughts in upon themselves. How deep did all this go? He had believed himself simply a powerful man, a warrior born, in pursuit of Verkanus and answers. Now, it was nearly more than he could comprehend.

"I chose you," Ashal said. "When Verkanus performed the ritual that would summon forth a demon, it was I in the mass of Trodans who hurled forth a dart to disrupt the spell. It was I who brought disorder to his magic and produced you from the heavens."

"Why?" Bayne asked.

Ashal shrugged. "A balance was needed. Evil had been dominating the world for some time, and would have continued to do so unless measures were taken. You are the result of those measures. You are the balancer."

Verkanus sneered again and spat onto the ground in the center of the three stone seats.

Bayne rocked back on his heels and ran a hand along his bald dome in order to give himself moments to think. He was immortal. But how? And he still did not know from whence he came.

As if reading the warrior's mind once more, Ashal pointed to the emperor and said, "Verkanus became immortal when he discovered ancient scrolls of the Zarroc, a race which annihilated itself many millennia ago."

"And you?" Bayne asked of the god-who-was-not-a-god.

Ashal smiled. "I am... unique. Let us say it was my fortune to be born with special talents. Unlike Verkanus here, my mortal form can be destroyed, but I continue to survive in a spiritual body until I decide otherwise. When I wish, I can incorporate myself into a physical form."

Bayne blinked. A thousand questions ran through his mind, but what was there to say? This was all beyond the warrior's reckoning. His existence, relatively brief for even mortals, had not taught him the ways of gods. Men worshipped, and until this day Bayne had had little belief. The world had moved, men lived and died, nations rose and fell, but Bayne had before seen little evidence gods truly existed, let alone walked the same soil as of men. To learn he was somehow connected with these divinities did little to ease Bayne's mind. He was just a man, though possibly an exceptional one. His experience had told him nothing of how to behave in the vicinity of gods, let alone how to act if he himself were a god of some sort.

Ashal smiled again. "Bayne kul Kanon, do not worry yourself over what you do or do not know. Knowledge can be overvalued at times, and logic alone will not always suffice. Trust your instincts, and learn to yield to faith."

"Faith?" It was Verkanus who spoke, the bitterness in his voice dripping with toxin. "You preach faith to this slayer? Where was your faith when he was slaughtering Trodans by the thousands? Where was your faith when his mind was blank and he could not recall his own past?"

"Some men have to learn faith," Ashal said. "Perhaps Bayne has."

The emperor sneered and waved a hand toward the warrior. "Well, Bayne, what have you learned during your days?

For this, Bayne had an answer. He stood straighter, taller, as if proud of what he had to say. "I? I have learned that men are weak. They are assaulted on all sides by many distractions, and they fall prey to nearly all of them, never seeing beyond what lies directly before them. What have I learned? I have learned humanity has much possibility, but little diligence."

Verkanus chuckled. "Much as I expected."

"Possibility," Pedrague repeated Bayne's word, then added, "that implies faith. To see that very possibility implies faith that the possibility can become reality."

Ashal nodded. "Very good."

Pedrague blushed and lowered his head.

"Fools!" Verkanus shouted. "Battle and slaughter, years of tireless walking, then climbing, and that is all this idiot has learned?"

Now it was Bayne who sneered. "Then tell me, oh king, what has been missing from my education."

"Power, you fool! Among all men, you are the strongest. Invincible, immortal. You could have taken it all, by your own hand, and ruled!"

"A familiar argument," Pedrague pointed out.

"Yes," Ashal agreed. "The very one made to me in a former lifetime."

Verkanus fumed, his chest heaving and his lips parting slightly to draw in leaden breaths. "Surrounded by fools," he muttered to himself, his eyes wandering away. "Always powerful, never gaining power. What use is immortality if one does not gain by it?"

The emperor turned toward Bayne. "You have reached not only the apex of this mountain, but the apex of your experience, and yet you've learned nothing."

The warrior glanced from king to priest to god. "This mountain? Was it to be my teacher?"

Ashal nodded. "In many ways, yes. It was a manner of preparing you for this gathering."

"The events that transpired," Bayne said, staring at Ashal, "were they real or false?"

"Does it matter?" Ashal asked.

Bayne thought. The battle in the village had seemed real, as did the magic of the tavern, the women of the cave and the men of the road through Stagnation. It had all seemed real. If it had been lessons he was meant to learn, then Bayne supposed he had learned them. Real or not, they were real to him. That was what was of import.

Bayne nodded. "Real enough."

"Fool!" Verkanus said. "Illusions all!"

"Created by you?" Bayne asked of the king. "Or you?" he turned upon the god.

Ashal remained silent.

Verkanus chuckled. "Your woman doesn't even exist! You had believed once your dealings with me were finished, you would return along your path to find your precious Valdra. But she is not real!"

Bayne waited for the emperor's evil laughter to die. "If it was you who created such illusions, then you are powerful enough to discover from where I came, and you have lied to me that you cannot answer my questions. You have broken our bargain more than once."

Verkanus laughed again.

He was quieted as Bayne palmed the emperor's face.

"Enough of this," said Bayne.

The big warrior's strong fingers wrapped around the skull and he squeezed. There was a shrill cry, followed by the cracking of bone as the emperor's face imploded, then silence. Red jelly seeped between Bayne's digits before he tossed Verkanus to one side.

"Let us see how you enjoy eternity without a head," Bayne said.

The emperor's faceless figure twitched and jiggled for several moments, then came to a standstill.

"Thus the balance has been reached," Ashal said with a bow of his head.

A sudden intake of breath caused Bayne to glance up at Pedrague. The priest stood as if stone, his features stretched in horror. The warrior moved so that his large body shielded the image of Verkanus from the priest.

"He will recover," Ashal said of Pedrague. "Give him a few minutes."

"After the battle with the Trodans," Bayne said, "I would have believed him beyond such emotions."

The god smiled. "Some of us remain innocent all our lives."

A flare lit up the scene and all eyes focused upon the corpse of the king. The body was aflame, a lavender blaze eating away at the flesh and dark garb. Within seconds, the figure had become as black ash, then it broke and cracked into a million miniscule pieces and drifted away upon a light breeze.

"He will... rebuild himself eventually," Ashal said, standing. "Until then, the world is a safer place, a better place."

Bayne turned to the priest once more and saw the man continued to stand still with a glazed look upon his face. The warrior slapped his hands in front of Pedrague's eyes, drawing a flinching head as response.

Ashal stepped over to the cleric and placed a gentle hand upon a shoulder. "Go from here now, good Pedrague, and return to your temples. This gathering is finished. Record what you will."

"I believed..." the priest's voice trailed away as he stared off once more.

"You believed there would be a war between myself and my former father," Ashal said. "That was never a possibility. I do not wage war. I have no need for it."

"Which I suppose is why my presence was necessary," Bayne said.

"To an extent," Ashal said, "but the outcome was not entirely yours to decide. Verkanus could have acted upon his own, as could I. You were here not necessarily to make a decision yourself, but to provide an equilibrium. You acted. An outcome has been decided. The matter is finished."

"You implied he will return," Bayne said. "How long?"

Ashal shrugged. "Much will be up to him, and there's the mental scarring your damage will have done upon him. It could be months or years, perhaps even several human lifetimes."

"I will be waiting," Bayne said.

"Good," Ashal said. "Perhaps next time Verkanus will have a more difficult road to dominance."

"What of him?" The warrior jabbed a finger in the direction of the priest.

Ashal squeezed Pedrague's shoulder, then waved a hand before the cleric. "Be at ease."

The priest blinked. "I... I..."

"Take care of yourself, Pedrague," Ashal said.

The priest, his face lively once more, turned to his god. "You are leaving?"

"I am."

"You must come with me!" the priest nearly shouted. "We can bring you to the temple. Word will spread. You have returned."

Ashal's smile was a sad one. "Not now, good man. The world must do without Verkanus and myself for some while."

"But why?" Pedrague asked. "Why not return? Bring your healing powers to the people, my lord, and all will follow. You can bring an end to the divisions among the believers. You can bring the Ashalites and the Ashalics together, ceasing the warring among the shrines."

"Then I would be little better than Verkanus himself," Ashal said. "No. Men must learn to do for themselves and provide for themselves."

"Faith," Bayne said.

Ashal's grin grew wider and less sad. "Indeed. And free will."

"Before you go, will you help where Verkanus would not?" Bayne asked. "Will you tell me who I am?"

"With regrets the answer is no," Ashal said. "In many ways you are still a blank slate, Bayne kul Kanon. You have much yet to learn, and my telling would hamper your progress. Your road is not yet finished, though perhaps your climb is. My apologies."

Bayne nodded. There was no more to say on the subject.

"You are one of three immortals now, Bayne," Ashal went on. "Remember that, and use what you learn wisely. Men will attempt to use you for their own ends, as they do with all they perceive as gods."

"I am prepared," the warrior said.

The god's eyes glimmered. "I believe you are."

Then Ashal turned and walked several yard away. He turned back one last time, waved, and said, "Goodbye."

It was as if a mist of steam poured over the god, and then he was gone.

Bayne blinked. Then he turned to Pedrague. "I propose we climb back down," the warrior said.

The priest shrugged, but disappointment was clear on his face. "I suppose."

Soon enough they were walking.

As they rounded upon the path Bayne had followed to the top of the mountain, the big man gently slapped the priest on the shoulder and provided a grin of his own. "Do not worry about your god, preacher man. Remember to have faith."

Pedrague chuckled as they walked. "I will attempt to do my best. But you, Bayne? What will you do now? Where will you go?"

"I go in search of the woman Valdra," Bayne said, retrieving Masterson's cigar from his belt and planting it in one corner of his mouth. "She seemed as she would make a good companion for one such as myself. If Verkanus spoke truly that she was an illusion, it will be to my loss. But I will search nonetheless."

"Faith," Pedrague repeated.

The priest snapped his fingers and a small flame danced in the middle of his hand. He held it up to set a burning glow to the end of his companion's cigar.

The story continues in: A Thousand Wounds: Book II of The Sword of Bayne

### The Ursian Chronicles

(in order of publication)

City of Rogues: Book I of The Kobalos Trilogy

Road to Wrath: Book II of The Kobalos Trilogy

Dark King of the North: Book III of The Kobalos Trilogy

The Kobalos Trilogy OMNIBUS edition

Blade and Flame: short story sequel to The Kobalos Trilogy

Bayne's Climb: Part I of The Sword of Bayne

A Thousand Wounds: Part II of The Sword of Bayne

Under the Mountain: Part III of The Sword of Bayne

The Sword of Bayne OMNIBUS edition

Ghosts of the Asylum

Demon Chains

The Castle of Endless Woe (novelette)

Six Swords, One Skeleton and a Sewer (short story)

Five Tales from The Rusty Scabbard

Mage Hunter: Episode I: Blooded Snow

Mage Hunter: Episode II: Sundered Shields

Mage Hunter: Episode III: Bared Blades

Mage Hunter: Episode IV: Hammered Iron

Mage Hunter: Episode V: Changeless Fate

Mage Hunter OMNIBUS edition

Shieldbreaker: Part I: Road of the Sword

Shieldbreaker: Part II: An End to Rage

Shieldbreaker: Part III: Betrayal of the Self

Shieldbreaker: Part IV: The Slave Pits of Mogus Potere

Shieldbreaker: Part V: Following Bayne

