The Cursed Blood, стр. 71
Such things of “blackest magic” are so feared they were not even spoken of in public, in fact, mentioning them in polite company can very quickly end a fine meal or friendship. Just mentioning it is usually enough to send a deathly chill through a room and thrills of terror up the spines of listeners.
The Binding of Blood and the Soul Bonding are one of only three Dread Curses that usually carries a sentence of burning at the stake (Feydom was hesitant of executing a bonder when the bonded still lived, for obvious reasons) with very, very few exceptions for even attempting it or knowingly retaining any grimoire books or writings or records of any kind containing its instructions.
Such things were strictly outlawed and furiously investigated by the Wizards who viewed such things as a serious threat to them personally, almost as much as were venom (which is one of the few poisons that they fear). The Five had a distinct and apoplectic outlook on the Dread Curses and had been known to incinerate whole villages and everyone in them if it was believed such knowledge was secreted away and being protected within its confines.
Aunt Milly was furious and gave such an epic, legendary scolding to Gramps and White Owl that only ended when there was a loud banging knock on the lodge door that sent Manx into another fit of angry barking. We all started as the door banged in and rattled against the broom closet door behind it as Sir Becket, Lord of Camelot, barged angrily in with a train of Darkling knights with swords drawn at his back.
“Arrest him, and take the boy and Witches, alive if possible, if not…that’s fine, too!” he yelled as he pointed a finger at his father that trembled with rage, and the two rows of armored men filed forward dutifully as they sought to encircle us in a ring of deadly sharp steel that caught the reflection of the flames in the lodge’s hearth as the swords were raised.
“Will ye come peaceful like?” one asked hopefully before a hundred and so pounds, give or take of shaggy Witchound drove him to the floor, landing on his back with a clatter of armor at the receiving end of a leap Manx had taken from his spot by the fire. The man’s helmet rolled away to his comrades’ feet, and he flailed about in terror.
A long, low threatening growl ripped like a chainsaw from the huge war dog’s bared jaws and all that saved the hapless knight a bad death was a sharp snap of fingers from Gramps that paused the toothy lunge that would have had the dog’s dagger like teeth fastening about the back of the man’s neck, chainmail coif or not.
“I think not,” Gramps growled as he again drew his sword, the hissing rasp of steel on leather seemingly enough to drive the knights back a hesitant step as they eyed the legendary lord that I knew simply as Gramps with open fear.
“You really didn’t think this through, did you, son?” he spat in a steely venomous whisper as he raised his sword and glanced at his warped reflection on the oiled blue steel then fixed Sir Becket with a predatory look that had every ounce of rageful defiance drain from the Lord of Camelot’s face. At this the knights took a much larger retreating step as they stared uncertainly from Gramps to their lord.
“Y-yo-you cowards,” he gasped indignantly and more than a touch hypocritically if the tremor in his hand told anything of the truth of it.
“Take him, take him now!”
Not a soul moved and the Lord of Camelot stomped his foot in anger, but took not a single step forward.
“Why, pray tell, would you stop cowering in Camelot and come all the way here where you haven’t a shred of authority, and try this, today of all days, son? You do know I’m going to kill you, don’t you?” Gramps asked softly as even Aunt Milly, Fazool, and White Owl stared at him in unease. “I’m going to kill you, son. I’m going to make it last. I’m going to make it hurt.”
“You- you – you CAN’T kill me!” He stomped his foot like a spoiled child. “I’ve diplomatic immunity. You- you can’t even touch me.” He sneered, but the quiver in his lips betrayed his terror. “You attacked Camelot. You’re – you- you’re in league with a Warlock. You- you’re out to get me, to usurp me! I’ve every right to arrest you all!”
“This sounds all very familiar,” Gramps stated with a dark chuckle. “Like after you murdered your own mother, blamed me for it, tried to have me assassinated and usurped my throne.” He took a step forward and the whole lot took a step back, save his eldest son who seemed frozen in place and speechless with a dark stain creeping down the leg of his trousers as he stared at his father’s sword in horror.
“I didn’t murder Mother! You fled, ran like a coward!” He finally insisted, panickily waving his hands about and wide eyed.
“I chased your evil minions all over Feydom, you mean. Correct, son?” Another step forward and another retreating step from the knights was taken. “Then, then you banished me on pain of beheading, until that is it was proven that your Wizard was pure evil.”
“I didn’t know, I didn’t-”
“Lies,” Gramps hissed He would have rightfully murdered the pathetic man right there if Aunt Milly hadn’t stepped in right as he whipped about his sword as his son fell cowering to his knees before him, her grabbing hold of his arm tightly.
“Not. This. Way. Not in front of Ben. Not like this,” she hissed. “It would ruin