The Adept
The windhover wheeled.
The winds had shifted, the rising warm air suddenly turning cold. It was a wind of Omens, a joining from all directions of the compass creating a disturbance, causing a sense of unease even to this small predatorial bird. With a cry, tinged with defiance, it wheeled again letting the winds undercut its descent before beating a swift retreat to its nest and the homey bickering of its chicks. Hunger would be rife this day.
Below, The Vista stretched for nearly ten miles inland. Nearer the coast the high tree lined bluffs gave way to gently rolling hills. Formally known as the Firth of Castavens, it had become known as The Vista by the commons, for only that name could do its beauty any justice. The tide was out, leaving an endless expanse of shallow pools creating a myriad of patterns. All was still in the mid-afternoon heat, an excited hush as if in anticipation of the Sunset soon to come. For at sunset, the broad expanse of the Firth would be bathed in light and with the tide in, it would become a vast mirror creating the Vista of Beauty. For now, silenced reigned, the small birds swooping at the water’s edge also suddenly gone quiet.
The winding road of packed dirt was vastly inadequate for the large company of men descending from the bluffs, but it was the quickest way to the village and time was important to the Nameless man. He rode in the van, a quiet broad shouldered man, blending inconspicuously within the company, alone with his thoughts. Head down, he was unaware of the Vista stretching below him. The warriors around him were an odd lot. Hard faced, tough looking men, they seemed like any veteran outfit in the world. They were kitted out with a wide array of armour and weaponry, from broadswords to spears and simple leathers to toughened steel plate armour but each had the same look in their eyes marking them as one. A vacant dead eyed look with an endless terror set deep within. They stared out at the Vista, unseeing. Unlike their leader, they were not nameless but names had no more meaning to them.
The Nameless man suddenly looked up as a spark of emotion manifested itself near the rear of the group. Wheeling his horse in a fluid movement as the company halted around him, a bolt of energy striking a young warrior killing on impact. The Nameless man shuddered as the death of the warrior augmented his powers, reaching yet a higher level, accompanied by feelings of near ecstatical pleasure. He chaffed at this new delay, for the body had to be disposed of. The Master expected all haste, but the Nameless man preferred to be careful and knew a company of men could make all the difference. The control he had over this group was tentative at best but with the continuous feeding on their fear, he would soon be able to dominate even the strongest minds amongst them.
The Nameless man knew what he was: a Wielder and what he was capable of. He could wield dark magic at will but he was still under certain constraints . He had vague memories of his first lifetime, a power unto himself, ruling his own domain until like other powerful Dark Wielders, he had heard the Master’s call. Now he was a Nameless one and like all the others he was in thrall and obeyed only the Master for only He could release him or bind him anew.
He had been at this for more than half a century now, searching, seeking, all at the Master’s bidding. The “Master”, saying the word over in his mind, the contempt, the loathing he felt towards his master surfacing and engulfing his thoughts. He also knew that good service would reap greater rewards and longed for the day the Master would release him by speaking his true name, a name unknown. He was certain that time was near.
The smell from an afternoon teapot wafted to him on a cool breeze, the pungent spicy smell disrupting his brooding. Raising his hand to signal a stop, he dismounted motioning for a warrior to do likewise. He was getting too close to the small fishing village. Surmèr was tucked in between two low hills on the west shore of the Vista, completely hidden from the road. Still he could not risk being seen, not yet.
A silent communion passed between the warrior’s mind and his own. Trying to gently impress his orders on such a strong mind while keeping it near normalness was extremely difficult and a great risk, even more so when another part of his mind was focussed on the other warriors. The Nameless man could feel his body getting cold, his soul starting to detach itself under the strain of the magic being employed. This was more of an irritation that a serious consequence as the body was disposable. But if any of the warriors rebelled against their bonds at this instance, they would be enough to pose a mortal threat to him; he could be easily be destroyed in this transient stage. He felt a painful wrench as the process was completed and he was back in body. He had had no other option; this particular wielder was an Elemental. A Wielder of no great skill but capable of wielding elemental magic, he would be very useful for the search in the village. At least nothing had gone wrong.
The warrior was making his way back to his horse. Mounting quickly he started moving, alone, towards the village. The Nameless man also mounted, sending warriors ahead to the left over the first hill to act as trailbreakers. He needed to be far enough from the village so as not to attract any attention. Already he seemed lost in his thought, the awareness of the Wielder warrior pressing against a corner of his mind.
Θ
The warrior trudged on silently as the small of tea got stronger. Afternoon tea was considered more or less a ritual in these villages. Nothing but a great disaster would keep the villagers from their teapot, he thought, and rightly so. The thought surprised him; it had been a long time since he had been able to set aside the constant fear. Memories were trickling back, a name, simple but meaningful: Jan. A mission, a description, somebody…
With memories came self-consciousness and Jan started probing his mind trying to cause the trickle to become a flood.
