Scarred Man by Bevan McGuiness Page A

teeth in defiance. The old one showed his in reply.
    Feeble, yellowed teeth.
    Small and blunt.
    His breath is rancid with rot.
    Old thing is not long for life.
    Even shorter when she escaped these sorcerous bonds.
    â€˜Just lie still, shapeshifter,’ Joukahainen murmured. ‘This won’t take long.’ He pulled a small bowl out from under his robe and placed it on the ground between them. Into it he poured a powder. Tatya’s heart rose as she recognised the ritual.
    Next the liquid.
    Then the flame.
    Then the yellow smoke.
    The ritual played out exactly as she remembered it. Her head swam as the pungent smoke wafted towards her, filling her nostrils and lungs with its powerful narcotic haze. She saw images, they danced across her mind, telling their own bizarre, disjointed tales of adventure, pain and subjugation. Tatya let the tale play itself out in her mind before uttering a low growl and feigning sleep.
    The bonds would come off.
    Someone would die.
    Then she would run.
    Head north.
    Away.
    Flee and hide from it.
    Hide.
    Joukahainen rocked back on his heels, his eyes a mystery.
    â€˜Well, well, shapeshifter,’ he muttered. ‘You poor thing.’ He chuckled as Tatya opened her eyes to stare balefully at him. ‘Let’s see what we can find out about it, and turn it to my advantage.’ He discarded the bowl and the burning powders before reaching his skeletally thin fingers out to grip Tatya’s head. She tried to pull away, to better rip at the grasping hands, but again the sorcerous bonds defeated her.
    Once the bony fingers gripped her head, she was wrenched around to face the old human. His eyes bored into hers, his powerful mind battering away at her defences, smashing its way through to the core of her terror, her despair, her need to flee.
    Her link.
    The tussle of minds was as short as it was bitter, and the shapeshifter stood no chance against the trained, strong, vicious mind of the Key Wielder. In moments, her defences lay in tatters before him, her fears spread out naked before his questing mind. She saw again the awful moment when the human had put her in thrall.
    The moment when her own identity lay at risk of utter subjugation to another.
    The moment every shapeshifter feared above all — the forging of the link.
    â€˜Is there any way we can help Tatya?’ the woman had asked.
    â€˜If we give her the talisman after Cort pays us, she will be free.’
    Stupid human — instead of freeing her, she had bound her more tightly than any talisman ever could. The talisman that held Tatya captive to the ignorant human in Mollnde was destroyed, long gone, but by saving her and then freeing her, the hateful woman had doomed the shapeshifter to a lifetime of utter servitude. Until one of them was dead, Tatya was bound beyond any hope to worshipping the human.
    Unless she could flee and hide, far from the grasping tendrils of destined purpose.
    Unless she could find the Revenant that, according to legend, dwelt in the frozen wastes.
    Only it, with its limitless power over anachronisms like her, could break the ancient betrayal.
    Only it could overturn the treachery of the Scarens.
    Desperation gave her strength. She tore at the binding ropes, sensing for the first time a hint of weakness. A fibre broke. Tatya yowled and doubled her efforts. Another fibre gave way under her furious assault, then another — and suddenly the magic failed.
    She sprang to her feet and went to slash at the old human, but he raised his hands in defence. Instead of the feeble fingers, Tatya’s claws met a magical shield stronger than metal. Sparks flew where claw met magic. Pain shot along Tatya’s forelegs, sending her sprawling backwards, whimpering and trembling from the shock. Before she could recover her wits, the human gestured again and a hot wave of magical energy swept over her, sending her teetering to the edge of unconsciousness.
    There, on the dark precipice, Tatya