The Wynds Saga

Chapter 1

The pale, cold light of the moon man danced upon his blade like a school of silvertrout pushing against the currents. Crimson dripped from the edge of the moon glow blade, raining down into an eddying pool of bloodstained death. The blood; that thing that was a sign of life when cloaked and a sign of death when begotten by the eye, slid down the hill preposterously slow. Dark clouded eyes glared at him, blue cold eyes faced the sky hollowly, hazel eyes bowed there head in shame beneath his feet; eyes filled with anger, fear and hate accused him, each pair was so different but all the same in one thing: they know knew the meaning of the word defeat. One of the men was still jerking around, legs and arms shifting erratically but slowly stiffening, slowly the soldier was accepting the facts of life; he was dead.

Many people had died tonight; many more would die. Wynds sheathed his sword and moved like his namesake. There was much work to be done tonight and more would suffer the fates of these men.

The cold bitterness of a winter's heart pulsed through Wynds's body chilling him to the core. Even wearing a thick wool riding cloak, he felt chilled and it was no wonder a man had to be ice itself to do the things that this man did.

Continuing his trek Wynds glided through the shadows of the trees. The bright moon hung like a huge pearl in the sky, illuminating the entire valley as if to allow anyone who journeyed through here to see what had happened at the top of that bald incline. The hill he had just come from sloped up gradually until it was a good two-hundred feet higher than the rest. At the top, it became obesely wide and round, plump robust and full of greenery. However, the tall grasses did not extend into the arcing dirt path that lay across the green behemoth. And the bodies were thick on that path for any to see.

So did he continue his journey along the shadows in such a fashion, now far away from the valley, but still following that worn dirt path. Not a sound could be heard besides the feral howl of the forest inhabitants in the distance and the swish of moving grass beneath the winds. He glided through the shadows cast by the great oaks to his left, never making a sound as he tracked his targets. Soon, again his blade would be unsheathed.

For Wynds this was a typical job, the game of cat and mouse played by the assassin and his targets. At least everything had been typical until today.

He could see the crusted imprints of feet on the ground, dirt was ruffled in the waves of dragged feet. The target, his target had managed to escape. Those soldiers had managed to fend off his attack long enough to let the boy live during the previous skirmish. Light how many skirmishes had there been tonight? Wynds had lost count. Since dawn he had been attacking, slowly picking off the army of men surrounding his target. The dark riding cloak he wore still managed to maintain it's eternal bleakness, but, caught in the right light, it flickered eerie ocher fluids. To a keen-eyed onlooker it would seem that at one moment he was a fading mirage and the next a fiery visage of death set against the serene ivory pool of illumination and rebirth known as the moon. For wasn't that truly what the moon was, a prophecized rebirth for the morning? The moon illuminated and guided but paled in comparison to the power of the sun. And once that moon had set, once that prophecy was of what was to come was forgotten, then would the prophecy be realized. The sun would rise. And with all it's might and strength it would give life, take life and end life. It would but in a moment create blistering heat and searing rays that melted the flesh and in that same moment give life to the tree that would shade your escape from that divine aura. Yes, the prophecy was much more subtle, only providing illumination for those who looked.