The Sword of Bayne

By Ty Johnston

The warrior Bayne wakes amid battle with no memory of his identity. Who is he? And who holds the answers to his past and future? To find such answers, Bayne begins a long journey, chasing a wizard who might hold the keys to knowledge. Bayne's path takes him far up the sides of a mountain, into another world, then across plains. Along the way he meets unusual characters, sees unforgettable sights and shares his need for war with those he encounters.

This Omnibus edition of "The Sword of Bayne" collects three novellas of the adventures of warrior Bayne kul Kanon. Here you will find "Bayne's Climb," "A Thousand Wounds," and "Under the Mountain" in one collection.

In part an allegorical tale, this collection of short novels takes place in the same world as the author’s Kobalos Trilogy, but nearly 2,000 years before the events of those books.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ty Johnston
• Release date: Sep 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465964717

Ty Johnston

Originally from Kentucky, Ty Johnston is a former newspaper journalist. He lives in North Carolina with loving memories of his late wife.Blog: tyjohnston.blogspot.com

Book preview

The Sword of Bayne

OMNIBUS

A collection of Three novellas

Bayne’s Climb

A Thousand Wounds

Under the Mountain

by Ty Johnston

Copyright 2011 L.M. Press

Also available from the author

The Kobalos Trilogy

City of Rogues

Road to Wrath

Dark King of the North

Blade and Flame (a prequel short story)

Coming November 21, 2011

Ghosts of the Asylum

a sequel to The Kobalos Trilogy

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 the D Man

Dear reader

Thank you for taking the time, and shelling out some change, to read this collection of novellas. Bayne’s Climb is the first part of the three-part series of novella’s here collectively titled The Sword of Bayne. The second part is A Thousand Wounds, and the third Under the Mountain, all available in the collection you hold in your hands.

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.

Bayne’s Climb

Part I of The Sword of Bayne

22 years After Ashal (A.A.)

Part 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.

Part 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