Page 2 of Twisted Bonds

Somewhere in the keep, Master Yurghen’s life force powered this ward.

Which meant Master was more alive than dead.

Toward evening, when the first fingers of golden light caressed the tops of the dark trees in the wood, Mouse noticed the ward flicker.

He stilled, as watchful and nervous as his namesake, pressing his thick glasses further up his rounded nose.

When the ward disappeared, Mouse sprang. He got one whole foot over the boundary before he snapped back. He shrieked as tendrils of a dark magic, cruel and familiar, curled around his small body as he flew back toward the castle. The threads of Chroma receded only after Mouse was dumped unceremoniously onto the steps of the tower.

A shape loomed there, barely, but still there.

Mouse trembled, unwilling to look forward. From underneath his lashes, he watched as the pile of rags heaved a great, beleaguered sigh.

“You can’t find loyal minions these days. They just don’t make them like they used to.”

Mouse wasn’t sure if he was supposed to respond, so he did not.

The pile of rubble moved. It reminded Mouse of a slug or a snail; instead of the sure motion of legs striding forward, the figure seemed to ooze, spilling down the steps one inch at a time until it came to rest in front of Mouse’s face. He glued his eyes to the ground, terrified to look up.

Like a snail, the shape had left a trail on the steps. Only the slime of a garden creature felt pleasant compared to what Mouse saw. The smell of rotting flesh and diseased fluids confirmed his suspicion.

“Well, where are they, then?”

Mouse squeaked. “Um. The cook is… she’s…”

“Not the cook, you idiot,” the pile of effluvia snapped. “The Shards and the Vessel. Where are they?”

Mouse shook his head. “I don’t… I’m not…”

“Silence,” the trembling pile commanded. Grateful for something he could do, Mouse obeyed. The pile of flesh that had once been, and apparently continued to be, Master Yurghen seemed to contemplate something.

Mouse only assumed. He remained quiet, but there was no head to scratch, no brow to furrow. There was no way to tell what the puddle of bones and flesh was doing, because there was no way to read his body language.

Bodies, it seemed, needed to have shape to communicate.

“No matter,” the fleshy blob finally snapped. “I’ll deal with them when the final ritual is completed.”

Mouse trembled, barely able to keep tears from staining his cheeks. If only he’d gathered his courage a little faster, he’d be free like the cook.

Mouse wanted to be free.

Courage, a strange sensation like the beating of wings in his chest, buoyed him to stand. With a strange rush of irrational emotion, he turned to face the stinking pile of rotting bones. Eyes and a skeletal face, masked by thin strips of glistening flesh, peered at him from beneath a hood.

Mouse swallowed, his courage faltering. Instead, he bobbed his head, averting his eyes. “Mouse will serve Master Yurghen.”

In response to his renewed pledge of fealty, a wisp of inky black Chroma formed around the rags. Mouse gasped at such evil. His lips curled into a grimace, and his voice released a scream.

Pain ricocheted through him. It roiled through his skin, biting his nerves and burning through his mind. Mouse collapsed, writhing on the ground. Finally, when his suffering stopped, he looked at the wizard through tear-stained eyes.

The lidless eyes were hard as they stared back at him.

“The others might have escaped. But know this, little Mouse. You will never be free of me.”

Mouse, still reeling from the ocean of hurt that had overwhelmed him, nodded.

Mouse is weak.

Mouse is coward.

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