The Ashwell Challenge: An Anthology

The Mind Thief

by D. N. Ashwell

Rain trickled down the thatch, pinning the musk of the tightly packed town to the churned mud underfoot. Pulling the fabric of his hood close, Mikelson peered across the road to the lone tavern among the peeked rooves of the Crossroads. Casting a firm eye at the clouds above, he shook his head as if ashamed of the great Gods of Nature. Returning his gaze to earthly matters, he scanned the scant crowd, most fleeing through the rain without the desire to linger, hiding themselves away from the soak. He couldn't take another drunkard, their stomachs leeching poison into their veins. This one was too much already.

At last, hiding among the eaves, he spotted one who would do: a barmaid, lean and young. Fit enough, he supposed.

"Now, finally, I bid ado," he whispered to himself, but not for his own benefit.

Huh? You go now? his slurred voice intoned in his mind.

He shook his head one last time and sank back against the wall, his eyes trailing the young woman across the way as she shooed a drunk patron away with a tray. His sight tunneled, boring across the gap as if the air were solid. He imagined ghosts felt the same when passing through walls. His old body shuddered as he disconnected, remaining tethered to the reality of Mikelson's mind until the last possible instance. All sense of the man's body and his sickly stupor fell away, replaced by the renewed, albeit exhausted, strength of the young woman.

"Really, Mikelson? How in all the good heavens are you drunk already?" a crone of an old woman yelled from the alley, a sharp kick toppling him woozily into the mud of the street.

"Good riddance," the young woman shook her head pitifully.

Hold on, what is happening? I can't move. I can't move! the barmaid rattled in her head with increasing panic.

Please, relax, her voice answered, but it was only so much her own as an echo, I am not going to hurt you.

Who are you? What are you doing to me? Wait...the realization dawned on the young woman and her whimper receded, You're the Mind Thief!

Yes, the Mind Thief responded, testing the movements of the young barmaid she now occupied. She dialed in the lengths of her limbs as she swept a bottle from the last drunkard out of the mud, the sharp swing assessing the sensitivity of her balance.

You're real? You're REAL! the woman shouted in her mind.

Please, if you mind, don't shout. I just came out of a pitiful drunkard of a man, and I think I may have carried something of a hangover with me, the Mind Thief glanced back to the alley in which she had left Mikelson.

Oh, sorry, the woman's mental voice lowered to a whisper, Mikelson is notorious for taking to drink. Why would you choose him? And me?

I need to get in here, the Mind Thief eyed the wooden sign shaped like a kettle, the grain of the wood apparent despite its distance above her head, I heard tonight the mercenaries descend to hear Sir Pevin's call.

So that's what's with the uptick of business...

Impressive. The girl was quick. And remarkably unperturbed.

You don't seem much disturbed by my invasion of your mind.

I've heard the legends, the Mind Thief could feel the fear, but laced beneath the initial terror was something akin to awe, You flit person to person, trapping them in their own heads, turning their hands to your work with or without their permission. But you've also turned the bandits' blade against themselves. You've led despots to their demise. You are a Reaper, separating chaff and wheat according to your own designs.