The Sword Of Bayne Omnibus

by Ty Johnston

  More striking to the senses were the scents and sounds. There were a thousand smells assaulting Bayne’s nose, most unpleasant. Sewage. Oils. Sweat. Stinks of all kind. But there were some pleasant aromas, as the hint of baked breads and cooked meats reached the warrior. The noise was unnerving to one so used to the quiet of solitude, and the din of this city was louder and unlike that of the cities of Ursia. There were honkings like that of geese, screeches as if from a barn owl, shoutings, hollerings, clickings, clackings.

  The warrior blinked and took in that first building again. It set on the left side of the road, and was a large, white dome with a metallic sign hanging above what appeared to be an entrance of twin darkened glass doors.

  The deputy seem nonplussed, but why should he? This was his world. It was all natural to him.

  He steered toward that first building and Bayne followed.

  As they neared the structure, for the first time the swordsman began to question the reasoning for his arrest. He concluded it must have something to do with the bandits in the forest. Admittedly he had slaughtered them, but in that there had been justice. Those men had been willing to kill simply for the sake of his sword, and men who would do such a thing were a danger to all who would have traveled the road through those woods. But Bayne was no fool. He realized the local authorities might not hold him in high regard for doing their job for them, and for doing it far too well.

  It also occurred to Bayne there was some irony in his slaying of the bandits over his sword though he had somewhat willingly handed his weapon over to this deputy without smashing the man into a bloody pulp. There was a difference, however. The bandits had been wild men, full of threat and chaos. This deputy was a legalized representative of this land, whatever it may be.

  The metal horse and its rider came to a halt in front of the large round building, the deputy sliding from his saddle and turning to face Bayne, the magic wand once more extended in the direction of the prisoner.

  “Follow me,” Walticoff ordered, then turned toward the glass doors of the building, Bayne’s large sword under one arm.

  Bayne glanced at the deputy’s steed, now up close able to make out that the animal – if it was an animal – had enormous eyes of rubies, then he did as he had been told and marched after the officer.

  Upon reaching the entrance of dark glass, Walticoff stood to one side, grabbed a steel bar on one of the doors and tugged it open.

  “Inside,” the deputy said.

  Bayne gave a momentary glance to the building’s interior but could make out little as the bright of the sun beat down above, blocking any view other than a dimness within. But he entered, walking past the deputy and into the domed structure.

  Within, Bayne found himself in a small antechamber and was assaulted by a chill like that of early winter. A soft, cold breeze played about the skin of his naked arms. He glanced up and found a metallic grillwork in the white ceiling just out of his reach. It was from that grill came the freezing air.

  A nudge from the back. “Proceed,” Walticoff said.

  Bayne moved forward, through another pair of dark glass doors which slid open seemingly of their own volition.

  The word, “Wait,” came from the deputy who carried his sword, and brought Bayne to a halt, for which the warrior was thankful as it gave him an opportunity to take in his strange new surroundings.

  The room before him was huge, more broad than it was long, the far wall itself a lengthy arrow-shot away. Bayne shook his head. From the outside the domed building had held some size, but the inside appeared larger than it had from outdoors. More magic at work. That cool breeze continued to waft down from occasional grated openings in the pale ceiling above, spreading coolness upon the hundreds and hundreds of metal tables, chairs, stools and desks that were spread in orderly rows throughout the place. Atop these pieces of furniture were stacks of papers, small black metal boxes the size of a fist and all kinds of instruments and devices with which Bayne was unfamiliar. Throughout the room were seated or walking or talking peoples, all wearing uniforms of a dull gray; various bronze insignia on the shoulders and breasts of their uniforms seeming to indicate some sort of rank. Surprisingly enough, some of those who were talking appeared to be talking to themselves; they sat and leaned forward near those small black boxes on their desks while their lips kept moving.

  It was all quite baffling to the swordsman.

  Another nudge from the back. “Straight ahead.”

  Bayne glanced forward. There was an open path between a row of tables. He proceeded forward, taking note of the comfort of the spongy dark green floor beneath his boots that seemed to be some form of tight-knit rug.

  Crossing the room with the deputy following, Bayne noted more than a few of those in uniforms stopped whatever they were doing, their eyes following him.

  At the end of the rows of tables, Walticoff bound his way around the prisoner and motioned toward a glass door set into the wall. Bayne approached, slowing long enough for his keeper to open the door, but was surprised there was no need. The door opened of its own volition, disappearing by sliding with a mechanical hiss into the wall.

  Bayne glanced into the room. It was a small chamber with another metal desk to the right and two black, padded chairs facing it. The walls were a dull white, as was the ceiling which contained another of those metal grills. The floor was still padded green, and upon the walls hung various documents of some sorts, all framed in wood or fake-looking gold leaf. Behind the desk sat a burly man, a huge man, wearing the same gray uniform as the others, though a red stripe ran from the back of his sleeved wrists up his arms and to his collar. The man harumphed upon seeing Bayne in the doorway, causing his long, thick mustache to quiver.

  “Well, come on in,” this new man said.

  The deputy prodded Bayne’s back with the handle of the warrior’s own sword.

  Bayne growled deep in the back of his throat, but stepped into the room, standing between the two chairs.

  “What’ve we got, Walticoff?” the pudgy man said.

  The deputy placed the large sword across the table, the tip of the blade and the weapon’s handle hanging over the sides. “Sheriff, this is the disruptor south of the forest we were tagged about. I’ve brought him in under your authority.”

  The big man glared at Bayne. “He looks like some kind of freak in that chain shirt and carrying that big sword. Probably dangerous, too.”

  Walticoff nodded. “Do you want me to remain, sir?”

  The sheriff waved off the lower-level officer. “No need. I think I can handle this one.”

  The deputy nodded, snapped his black boots together, then spun and exited the room, the glass door sliding closed behind him.

  The sheriff stared up at Bayne. “Take a seat.”

  Bayne looked down at the chairs, then eased into the one on the left, furthest from the door. His shackled hands jingled in his lap.

  “So you think you can go around terrorizing other people’s kids, huh?” the sheriff asked.

  Bayne’s eyebrows raised. The brat and his father. That’s what this was about?

  A fist slammed onto the table’s top, jarring various items placed there. “Not in my county, mister!”

  “I merely chastised the child,” Bayne said. “He was being offensive.”

  “Offensive? He’s a child! You don’t go around telling other people’s children what to do.”

  “You do when they are out of line,” Bayne said.

  Now the sheriff’s eyebrows raised. His eyes went wide and red and his lips sputtered. “It’s against the law! And you carrying that big sword, too! Where’d you get it?”

  “The sword?”

  “Yes, you idiot, the sword!”

  “I took it from the body of a dead Trodan general.”

  “A dead Trodan – what?”

  “A Trodan general,” Bayne said with calm.

  The sheriff’s face was now as red as his eyes. He glared up at the ceiling and ran a hand ov
er his sweaty, nearly hairless head.

  Bayne added, “I took it from him after I slew him in battle.”

  “Am I hearing you right?” the sheriff asked. “Are you admitting to murder?”

  The warrior shrugged. “It was fair battle. He called me out for single combat. I slew him.”

  The sheriff’s lips spluttered as he smacked himself in the face. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “It is the truth.”

  Hard eyes shot up to stare at Bayne. “This is no laughing matter. If you’re trying to make a fool out of me, you’ll come to regret it, mister.”

  “I have no animosity toward you,” Bayne said, “though I would like these shackles removed.”

  “I bet you would.” The sheriff chuckled and eased back in his chair. “I’ve got a direct witness willing to testify on paper that you accosted his very son, then attacked him, broke his arm. And now I’ve got you admitting to some kind of wild, crazy killing. I can put you away for a long time, if I want.”

  “The child was rude,” Bayne said as way of explanation. “I suggested he not be rude. As for the father, it was he who approached me. And this murder, as you call it, was no such thing. It did not even occur in this … this … world, but in Ursia.”

  “Ursia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never heard of it,” the sheriff said.

  The officer sat there in silence for several moments, his eyes taking in the big fellow seated across from him. Then, he slapped the table again. “I’ve got it. You’re insane.”

  “No,” Bayne said. “I am as sane as any man.”

  “Can’t be,” the sheriff said, “not to come in here dressed like something out of a fable, and spouting off to people’s kids the way you do. Only a fool or a madman would do something like that, and you don’t look like a fool.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Nothing to it.”

  One of the sheriff’s sausage-fingered hands shot out and scruffled through a pile of papers as if he were searching for something.

  “What is to become of me?” Bayne asked.

  The sheriff paused, glancing up. “I’ve got you on the kid thing, and the dad. You’re looking at least twenty years in the face.”

  Bayne’s face screwed up in confusion. “I understand not what you tell me.”

  “Prison,” the sheriff said. “You’re looking at twenty years in prison.”

  It took several more seconds, but the meaning of this finally sunk into Bayne’s mind. He jumped to his feet. “Twenty years?” he roared.

  The sheriff squeezed back in his chair, which edged back against the wall as far as it would go.

  The glass door slammed open, Walticoff standing there, his magic staff extended.

  “No!” the sheriff shouted.

  The deputy looked from Bayne to his superior, then back to Bayne, who was obviously heated, his face as red as that of the sheriff’s, his bulging muscles twitching.

  But Bayne made no more movements, simply standing there, his chest heaving.

  The sheriff got control of himself and stood, brushing at his chest as if wiping away crumbs. “Walticoff, take this fellow to chamber seven. Keep him cuffed, however.”

  His staff still stretching forth from his right hand, the deputy’s left hand motioned for Bayne to follow. “Come with me.”

  Bayne looked to the sheriff, his eyes questioning.

  “I’ll be along soon,” the sheriff said. “I’ll have some questions for you.”

  Bayne turned toward the deputy and followed the man out of the room, the door sliding closed behind them. Walticoff prodded the big man along the edges of the room toward a door in the far back right corner opposite of the entrance wall from outside. Bayne noticed the big room full of people in uniform was now much more quiet. All eyes were upon him. Everyone had stopped their tasks to follow his movements. They must have heard the outbursts in the sheriff’s room. All were curious.

  Bayne sneered at several uniformed men and women as he passed them. He would play along for a little longer, but if he was not given his freedom soon, he would make himself free once more. And woe unto any of these who would try to stop him. He did not need his sword, and he was assured in his own skills and powers, so much so he believed he could avoid or counter any more magical devices these fools might have. Bayne would be as helpful as he could, at least as long as he believed there was a chance he could learn something. Otherwise, there would be a reckoning for his imprisonment, especially if it was concerning something as silly as his few choice words with a crude child.

  Another glass door slid open and Bayne was lead through a long hall of white walls, a white ceiling and a black tiled floor. At the end of the hall was another door, this one looking to be of heavy iron. Walticoff reached up and pressed a red nub sticking out of the wall to the left of the door, and the metal hatch swung inward, opening to a larger room beyond.

  Through the metal door, Bayne found himself in another hallway running to his left. Along this hall there were many more metal doors, spaced out every few yards and each with a small window in its center.

  Walticoff nudged Bayne along and they walked until reaching the fourth door on the right, the seventh altogether. There was a metallic clicking sound within the wall and the door swung open, revealing the door’s vast thickness.

  “Inside,” the deputy ordered.

  Bayne did not bother to glance back. He stepped into the room.

  The door slammed shut behind him, jarring the floor.

  Bayne looked around. This was his cell, he surmised, but he had to admit it was better than he might have expected. The room was of a decent size. A man could at least walk from wall to wall and stretch his legs. To the left of the entrance was a simple bed on a black iron frame. To the right of the door was another metal desk, bolted to the floor, a simple wooden stool shoved beneath. Across from the entrance was another stool, this one beneath a window set high in the wall, faded sunlight shimmering through dirty glass. Also in the back of the room, snugged up against the wall opposite the stool was a steel tank of some sort, open at the time. A metal pipe ran from the back of this tank up the wall and into the ceiling. This open-faced tank stank of urine and worse, convincing him it was some kind of latrine.

  Feeling no want to approach those ugly smells, Bayne sat on the edge of the bed to gather his thoughts.

  Imprisoned. He stared at the heavy door, the plain walls, the window up high. Could he set himself free if he so wished? He did not know. Bayne was stronger than all other men he had known, but he did not believe the soft flesh of his hands nor the gnarled ends of his fists would accomplish much against the solid steel of the door. As for the walls, he figured the steel of the door continued behind their pasty whiteness. The window was the most logical target for placing his hope. If he could jump to the window, perhaps with the aid of the bed or the desk, he felt positive he could bust his way through.

  He glanced down. The bed, too, was bolted to the floor. Could he rip it or the desk free of their moorings? Possibly. But it was not time for such a test as of yet.

  Bayne needed time to clear his thoughts. Freedom was something he felt he could provide when necessary. But until then he had to think to a way to find someone who could be of help to him. So far, these local constables had shown no great signs of intelligence, though in all fairness they did not seem to be complete fools. The sheriff was simply a man doing his job, a man apparently faced with the unknown in Bayne. The deputy, Walticoff, had proven somewhat resourceful. Would the others, those who had littered the large entrance room, be similarly resourceful? Bayne thought it possible.

  Most importantly, he needed to find a way to communicate with these strange people. So far no one had seemed interested in hearing much that he had had to say. When questioned, he had offered straightforward answers. Astonishment or confusion had been the typical response. Bayne had not had an opportunity to ask his own questions. He must find a way to do so.
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  He had been sitting for some little while, the light of the sun through the window actually beginning to dim, when metallic clankings within the door brought his head up.

  The door slid open, once more entering the wall, and outside in the hall stood the sheriff, Deputy Walticoff and two other men in the gray uniforms.

  The sheriff was smiling, but in his hands was a black stick with a glass bulb on one end. It looked much like the weapon Bayne had seen carried by one of the bandits in the woods.

  “Hello, there,” the sheriff said, his smile growing wider.

  Bayne nodded back.

  “May I enter?” the sheriff asked.

  “It is your jail,” Bayne answered. “Do as you please.”

  The sheriff chuckled, seeming more at ease than he had earlier. He walked into the cell and pulled the stool from beneath the desk. He sat directly across from the big warrior, his girth more than covering the top of his chair.

  “Sheriff Fortcastle,” Walticoff spoke. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

  The sheriff glanced out the door. “I believe I’m safe enough. This man has shown no signs of violence. In fact, he’s been quite docile so far.”

  The deputy’s gaze twitched as he looked from Bayne back to his superior. “He had a sword, sir, and he is of … abundant size. In such close quarters, I am not sure we --”