by Ty Johnston
Once leaving the house with the boy and the angered father, the road curved through more fields for a few miles before rounding a low hill covered with rows of young wheat. On the other side of the hill, Bayne found a dense forest looming before him.
He did not pause to enter the woods, but some unknown sense alerted him to dangers beneath the canopy of tree limbs which stretched across the road. Once beneath the shade of the trees, the road itself gradually lost its bricks and became little more than a wide wagon path of packed dirt running straight through the forest. On either side trees haphazardly lined the road, beyond which could be seen a murkiness through which was revealed the occasional scrub brush, trunks of more and more trees and every so often the forest’s floor of dead, flattened leaves.
Bayne took in his surroundings, but he kept moving forward, moving ahead. Sooner or later he would find someone who could be of help to him. After the debacle with the brat and his father, Bayne was skeptical of the folk of this strange land he found himself wandering, but sooner or later someone would have to reveal something to him. It had occurred to him to have gone back to the house. He could have smashed his way in the front door, demanded answers. But that was not his way. Despite his martial skills and innate sense for violence, Bayne was not one to ask questions with his sword. At least not until he was forced to become ruthless. Whatever had been that odd situation back at the house, as surly as the father had been, Bayne had felt no need to batter answers out of the man, let alone to skewer him. Though Bayne had to admit there was a part of him that would have enjoyed doing so. Acrimony for no reason was unjust, to say the least. Bayne had done little more than scold the brat, and then only lightly. The father had no cause to act as he did. If the man had pushed further, Bayne would have been willing to force the fellow’s face into the dirt at the side of the road, but thankfully it had not come to that.
For whatever authorities governed this land, Bayne had no ill will toward them and had no wish to make enemies. Still, while he generally did not go out of his way to seek new foes, he had no knowledge of the men who ruled here. Perhaps they were tyrants. Perhaps they were evil overlords. For all Bayne knew, they could have been old enemies of his who had brought him to this weird world.
That thought caused a hiccup in the warrior’s step. Could Verkanus have magicked him here somehow? The last he had seen of the emperor-mage, Verkanus had been crushed, his body burning before disappearing. But Bayne had been warned his immortal foe was not destroyed, but elsewhere, somehow, somewhere, reconstituting himself through magic. Could Verkanus have recovered so swiftly and laid a trap for the swordsman?
Bayne thought not. Verkanus had lost his empire. He had been on the run from his own enemies. No, that mad king would have needed more time to develop such an intricate plan as to bring Bayne to this other world, this strange place of angry men in flowered shirts.
A crackling noise brought the warrior out of his thoughts. The sound had come from the deep woods to his left.
Bayne halted, his right hand reaching up over his shoulder for the long, leather-wrapped hilt of his sword. He eased to the side of the road, instinctively entering a defense crouch. He peered into the darkness between gray-barked elms that reached to the sky and overhung his path.
At first, Bayne witnessed only the gloom of the forest, the flat darkness that lives on the leaf-carpeted floor beneath the shade of many straight and crooked limbs and the thousands upon thousands of tiny green shields. But then a spark of light, a brief fleck of gold. It was some distance from the road, at least an arrow shot away.
The flicker came again. And again.
Someone was trying to strike a fire. That seemed plain enough to Bayne.
Another sparkle, then a shaky, breezy flame little larger than a man’s fist could be seen dancing upon the ground.
The warrior straightened and left his sword in its home. So. There was someone there in the woods. Perhaps they could be of service. Or perhaps they were dangerous. Bayne would not earn instant distrust by wielding his weapon. He needed this person, whomever they might be. If danger should loom, Bayne was ready for it. He was always ready for it.
He tromped forward, brushing aside young saplings to push his way into the shade. The fire was easy enough to follow as it stood out beneath the shelter of the many branches, so Bayne had little trouble making his way over fallen tree trunks and across dead, rotting foliage to the spot where the blaze continued to grow.
By the time he reached the edges of the fire’s light within the gloom, the flames had grown to a decent-sized burning for cooking, which seemed what it’s purpose was as a spitted fowl of some sort was already roasting.
A man stood on the other side of the dancing flames, his hands out at his side, one of them gripping a bone-handled knife with a large blade. He had obviously heard Bayne cutting through the woods and was waiting for whatever the large warrior would bring.
Bayne stepped into the light.
The two men appraised one another. The other fellow was large, nearly as big as Bayne himself, and filled with lumpy muscles above and below a barreled waist. His hair was curly and dark, though graying around the edges, and there was a balding spot atop his head. A shaggy beard and mustache covered much of his lower face, giving him the appearance of a woodsman. His clothing was as unusual to Bayne as had been that of the boy and his father, and the warrior spent long seconds staring at the man from head to toe. The fellow’s shirt was a pale, dull red, but nothing unusual. The jacket wrapping his shoulders and arms was odd, however, thick and puffy with a swirl of colors that matched those of the forest itself. His pants were covered in a thick, heavy cloth of a light blue. His boots were hard leather, laced from top to bottom along the front.
Whatever the stranger’s estimation of Bayne, the warrior could not guess. But a hard cruelness lay upon the woodsman’s face, and he showed no intentions of putting away his big knife, apparently his only weapon.
“What do you want?” the man asked.
“I seek only information,” Bayne said.
“Seek it elsewhere.” The man’s eyes narrowed.
Bayne gave back a similar cold stare. “I have already done such, and was met with stupidity.”
“You’re not wanted here.”
“That is the problem,” Bayne said. “I do not know where here happens to be.”
The stranger leaned back in some recognition of the situation, and allowed a sly grin as he sheathed his big knife. “On the run, are you?”
Bayne shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. I woke in this strange land, not knowing where I was.”
The other man chuckled and dropped to a knee next to the fire, reaching out to turn one end of the black iron spit so the featherless bird would cook on both sides. “Name’s Trolg. Give it a few minutes and I’ll have something here for us to eat. Hungry?”
Bayne nodded, sniffing at the scent of cooking fowl. “Aye. I had not thought of food since arriving here, but now that it is before me, a repast sounds welcome.”
Trolg stood again and reached into a back pocket of his blue pants and pulled out a small glass bottle. He twisted off a metallic cap and took a big swallow of the dark brown fluid inside. After his drink, he held out the bottle. “Go on. Have one.”
Bayne’s eyes narrowed once more, but with wariness he took the bottle. He sniffed at it’s top, shrinking back from the hard smell.
Trolg laughed. “It’s bourbon. Best there is. Go ahead.”
“I am not familiar with this drink,” Bayne said.
“They don’t have bourbon where you’re from? That’s a shame. Damn fine drink. Keeps the belly warm, and the senses from being dulled. Unless you take too much of it.”
Bayne stared at the auburn liquid floating around in the bottle. Trolg had had a drink, so it must be safe. The fluid smelled strong of alcohol. And it was not as if Bayne was unfamiliar with heavier drinks. He turned the bottle up and chugged at it, finishing down the last of the liquor in
one mighty swallow. A weak burning sensation slid down his throat and a heavy warmth settled upon his stomach.
Trolg went on laughing. “For someone not used to the stuff, you sure know how to put it away.”
Bayne held out the bottle, and the other man retrieved it, screwing the top back on before sliding it into a pocket of his jacket.
“So, you’re lost, is that it?” Trolg said.
“Yes,” the warrior said.
“Where you from?”
“I am Bayne kul Kanon,” Bayne said as way of introduction. “I know not my birthplace, nor my birth name, but I hail most recently from the land of Ursia.”
Trolg spit to one side, then leaned forward to inspect his cooking. “Never heard of it.”
“You have never heard of Ursia?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“It is a large continent,” Bayne said, “and the largest nation within that continent.”
Trolg knelt once more, withdrawing his knife to poke at their meal. “Never heard of it. Doesn’t sound like you’re from anyplace around here.”
“And what is this place?” Bayne asked.
Trolg waved his knife around. “This is the Forest Lee. Of County Queen.”
“I have never heard of such places.”
“Like I said, you’re a long way from home, mister.”
“Does a queen rule here, then?”
“No. We have a king.” Trolg sliced a sliver of white meat from the bird, popped it into his mouth and chewed, then shook his head and swallowed.
“The bird’s not done yet,” the woodsman said.
Bayne glanced about, spotted two heavy stones on the edge of the fire’s light, and moved over to them. With a grunt he hefted the first of the large stones and carried it closer to the flames before dropping the load. He then repeated with the other stone.
Once he was finished, he noted that Trolg was standing once more, his jaw hanging.
“What is the matter?” Bayne asked.
“My god, man,” Trolg said, “you carry two boulders the size of a small pony as if they weigh no more than bowling balls, and you ask me what’s wrong?”
Bayne grinned. “I have strength.”
“I can tell. Remind me to never cross your path, at least not without an electron stick.”
Electron stick? The term was unfamiliar to Bayne, but obviously a reference to a weapon. A sword of some sort, perhaps? Yes, this was a strange world to Bayne, and he realized Trolg’s words were true. He was, indeed, a long way from the lands he knew. Of how or why he was here, he had no knowledge. More importantly, could he get back to Ursia, the place he had come to think of as his home?
“I’ve been thinking, Bayne,” Trolg said, pulling a rag from a pants pocket and folding it open, then slicing several hunks of meat from the bird and placing them on the cloth. “You’re a strong fellow. And you’ve got that great big sword on your back. Are you an actor?”
“No.” Bayne had never witnessed a play actually performed, but he was familiar with the concept. Traveling minstrels and performers sometimes traveled through Ursia, and he had caught wind of a few of their talents.
Trolg knelt once more, cutting away more of the bird. “Then I don’t know what to make of you. I thought you might be some actor from a circus or something. But with your strength, and your sword, I’m wondering if you are some type of fighter.”
“I am,” Bayne said. “I am a warrior.”
“Soldier?”
“No,” Bayne said. “I have fought armies before, but I have never given my allegiance to any one king.”
“You fought armies? Whole armies?”
Bayne nodded. “Trodan infantry. It was my original purpose for … existing.”
Trolg gulped down a piece of bird, then held out the cloth and the rest of the sliced animal to the big warrior.
Bayne took the meat and began eating, the cooling fowl a delight upon his tongue and warming his belly nearly as much as had the bourbon.
Trolg went back to cutting slices of meat, kneeling again before their meal. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sound like one of the old gods.”
Bayne looked up. “Old gods?”
Trolg waved his knife around above their meal. “Back in the old days.”
“Do you mean Ashal?” Bayne asked.
“Never heard of him, or her, or whatever it is.”
More gods. Bayne wanted nothing to do with them. His one meeting with a god, the Almighty Ashal, had not lead to disaster, but it had not been overly helpful, either. As far as Bayne could tell, the gods played their own games without thinking much of what they were doing that could affect mortals. But then, Bayne supposed he was a god of sorts, or at least an immortal.
But not in this world.
He shook his head. “No, I am not one of these old gods.”
“Good to hear it,” Trolg said, taking back his cloth from Bayne and using it to wrap the meat he had sliced. “Never had much use for gods myself. Always seemed they were more trouble than they’re worth.”
“I tend to agree.”
Trolg looked up with a grin.
“Tell me, Trolg,” Bayne said, “is this a land of magic?”
“Magic?”
“Yes.”
Trolg shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. You’re sounding like one of the old gods again.”
“How so?”
“They were the only ones who used magic,” the other man said, standing and stuffing his wrapped food into a jacket pocket.
Knowledge of interest, but it seemed not helpful to Bayne kul Kanon. He had hoped there might be a wizard about, preferably a scholarly fellow who knew much but was not embroiled in politics nor took part in wild adventures. Bayne had hoped such a fellow might be able to tell how Bayne had come to this land, and possibly might be able to send Bayne back to Ursia. Such an idea was fleeting, however, because the swordsman now knew there would be no such wizard about. He would have to find someone else who might be able to come to his aid.
“Trolg,” he said, “is there perhaps a school of some sort in these parts?”
“School? Like where kids learn about math and the like?”
“I suppose so.”
“Not that I know about,” Trolg said. “Nothing around here but farms and farmland. You’d have to travel a good ways to find any kind of school. What would you need a school for, anyway?”
“I am in need of knowledge,” Bayne said. “I wish to return to my homeland, yet I do not know the way.”
“Maps,” Trolg said. “What you need are maps.”
“Perhaps. If one would direct me toward Ursia.”
“There’s that name again,” Trolg said. “I still don’t recognize it.
“Still, there’s a ranger’s station several miles up the road. They should have maps there.”
Bayne pointed back the way he had come.
“Yes,” Trolg said. “Go left once you hit the road, and you’ll find the station after a little ways. It’s a big wooden tower on top of a hill. It’ll be on your right.”
“My thanks to you, Trolg,” Bayne said. “It was an excellent meal, but I must be going. I wish you well.”
The big warrior turned to leave.
“Bayne!”
Bayne looked back. “Yes?”
“I’d still like to know one thing.”
“What is that?”
“If you’re not one of the old gods,” Trolg said, “then how come you’re so strong? And how come you can take on whole armies and win?”
Bayne shrugged. “I know not, Trolg. I have been seeking such answers myself for some little time now, all to no avail.”
Trolg shook his head. “Damn shame a man don’t know his own past.”
“It is.”
“Well … good luck at the ranger’s station.”
“Again, my thanks.”
And Bayne walked off, the darkness of the woods soon enveloping him again. Once he paused to g
lance back, but the light of the cooking fire could no longer be seen, which was odd. The fire and Trolg would not have been that far away, and Bayne had witnessed the flames earlier at some distance. Perhaps Trolg had quickly put out the fire. Or perhaps magic was involved, which was a notion Bayne did not dismiss nor enjoy.
But Trolg and the fire were in the past. This ranger’s station was in the future. If the maps of this land would not shed light on Bayne’s whereabouts, perhaps there would be someone there who could be of help.
The swordsman pushed his way through rough, gnarled tree limbs and snaking, hanging vines, eventually barreling through a nest of low bushes to find himself on the hard dirt road once more. Though the day was dying, the sun now barely hanging onto the distant horizon, the way before him was clear. To the right would take him back to the house of madness with the brat and the surly father. To the left was the way to the ranger’s station.
Bayne turned left.
The road straightened before the big man, the dirt path leading directly through the woods beneath overhanging branches. Soon enough Bayne was in near darkness once more. The sun was dipping lower and lower by the seconds, and the somberness of the forest already encroached upon the warrior’s way. Within minutes, he was in near black, the light of a singular moon the only guide to his walk.
After some little time, Bayne could make out a structure rising out of the darkness upon his right. A hill mostly bare of trees and brush stuck up on that side of the road, and he began a slow trudge up it. As he neared, the structure atop the hill formed into a tall framework of four massive logs rising to the treetops where was a building of sorts, a four-walled cabin with shuttered windows and a metal door that glinted beneath the moonlight. A stairway of lumber had been nailed together, leading high up to a narrow, cordoned walkway in front of the door.
Bayne expected this was the ranger’s station of which Trolg had told him. He was disappointed to see there were no lights, not even a lamp hanging outside the door, but perhaps these rangers or whomever inhabited this place would return soon.
Plodding his way upward, the lumbered steps groaned beneath Bayne’s weight through the stairway felt sturdy enough under his feet.