THE “FEAR AND HATE” ARC CONTINUES…
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Not only is it Draconic Weaving – an impossibility in itself – but powerful Draconic Weaving, too, Hugh thought bitterly. How did these mercs get such a weapon? The Scimitar was destroyed by the Ynaev… His puzzlement was cut short as a line of orange fire shot into the narrow, stone chasm he was hiding in. The dragon had found him. He pressed himself against the cave wall, wincing as orange flame gushed through the opening. Heat prickled his face. The fire disappeared; Hugh sighed. He knew full well he was lucky not to have been torched by the flames.
After the red-hooded figure had first cast the Draconic Weaving, Hugh had been quick to run away, drawing its and its conjurer’s attention. He’d figured that George’s odds – though abysmal – were considerably better without a dragon in the mix. Since then, he’d found himself cornered to this little cave, burrowed into the side of one of Marsheton’s sewer’s thick pipes.
Draconic Weaving was an extinct form of spell Weaving. It hadn’t been practiced for decades, at least. The last known user of Draconic Weaving had been the Third of the Seven Servants of the Mad God Guhaka, who had used the power via his mythical Dragonborn Scimitar. Like the rest of the Seven though, the Third had been felled by Battlemaster Gorgo Valiant and his reavers during the Last Siege over fifty years ago. The Dragonborn Scimitar had been seized by the Artefact Masters of the Ynaev – along with the other terrible weapons of the Seven – and destroyed. The secrets of Draconic Weaving had been lost thereafter.
Apparently not, Hugh thought ruefully as the two-metre-long, thick snout of the dragon suddenly poked into the entrance of his hiding place, inching deeper and deeper into the chasm. His eyes fixed on the dragon’s scaly snout, stomach tightening. The beast sniffed once, then a second time. Hugh’s heart thudded in his chest. The snout was just inches away from him, easily within reaching distance; all that he could do, though, was keep quiet and hope for the best. After a few tense, sniff-filled seconds, the dragon’s snout gradually slunk out of the chasm.
Hugh breathed a sigh of relief, but he did not let himself relax just yet. Sure, dragons did not have a terrific sense of smell – but it was still far better than a human’s. It was very odd, he knew, for the dragon to not have smelled him, especially considering how close he had been to it.
His concerns were soon proven correct, as there suddenly came a deafening bellow from outside the chasm. Hugh gritted his teeth, as the entire pipe shook. There was a warble as the red-hooded figure sang their instructions to the dragon, then another line of fire flashed into the chasm, lighting it once more with furious orange light.
‘Evon,’ Hugh snapped quickly as the fire blossomed. Heat washed over him, prickling his skin, but the Evon spell kept him untouched. But even as the fire dissipated, the heat did not, clinging to his chest.
He realised, with an audible gasp, his jacket was on fire.
Instinctively, he tore it off and flung it to the floor. The black leather was coated with flame. Stamping out the fire, he muttered bitterly to himself, ‘I liked that jacket, too.’ With the flames now gone, he kicked away the smoking jacket, eyeing grimly the holes that had been burnt through the leather. ‘I really did like that jacket…’
He sighed, pulling the scorched jacket back on. Somehow, he couldn’t bear to part with it. Its scorch marks would be just another memoir of his reaver exploits. Flexing his wrists, he glanced about the cavern, thinking escape. However, the chasm he was in had only one entrance – and that was blocked by the dragon…
Theoretically, he thought, brow creased with concentration. I could dig a chasm along the sewer pipe, then pop out to flank the dragon. However, there was one issue: he was Fire Weaver, not an Earth Weaver. While an Earth Weaver could simply meld the pipe to its desired form, he would have to melt through the pipe. The heat it’ll take to melt the pipe will be more than enough to melt me as well. Defeated, he slumped against the wall of the chasm, lost in his thoughts.
George needs me. He doesn’t even know a voya from a soundrin – he needs me to teach him and guide him through the ways of Weaving and the Reaver Society. Then he realised, grimly, that it didn’t matter whether he escaped from the dragon or not if George was whisked away by those mercenaries, who Hugh had recognised as the Red Dragon Warriors. And even if we both get out, there’s no telling how the captain and the rest of Taskforce Delta will react to me bringing an Ov’l back to base. But it wasn’t like there was anywhere else to go. It was either that or go on the run. He sighed. This is one heck of a bloody mess you’ve got yourself into, Hugh. One heck of a mess. You should’ve just killed him, then and there. With his Ov’l powers being strong enough to repel memory spells, that was the only option. But why didn’t you?
The answer to that question was complicated. Very, very complicated.
He was pulled sharply from his thoughts as a high-pitched warble echoed through the pipe. He flinched and eyed the entrance to the chasm, dreading the dragon’s next attack.
But it never came.
Instead, there was a voice. ‘I was told Hugh Fisher was a legendary reaver, the man who killed Sinchara Khan,’ the voice jibed. ‘Yet, when I come to fight him, he relegates himself to hiding away like a common coward.’
Hugh gritted his teeth, anger forcing out a steely reply…but he stopped himself before it could be loosed from his lips. I need to concentrate on escaping, not on winning a battle of egos.
As the voice outside continued to goad him – perhaps because they had realised their dragon couldn’t reach him in here – Hugh’s mind whirred, searching for a solution where there wasn’t one, like a boy searching for life in a deceased mother – a feeling he, unfortunately, knew all too well. Still, though he knew his mind’s search was futile, he continued to urge it on, whipping his head with his hands as if that would spur it to success. Whipping had worked on slaves, in the past, but his mind was not his slave. It yielded no answers.
Hello Hugh. Hugh flinched at the sound of the voice echoing through his mind. He recognised it was a telepathic voice, though could not determine who it belonged to: in the mind, all voices sounded alike.
It’s me, Fiona. At the revelation, Hugh’s eyes widened. He had found them – Taskforce Delta. He imagined it was either the captain or David who had gone to help George (with Annabelle still recovering from her last encounter with a gaggle of jinxer hexes), which relieved him somewhat. Unfortunately, though, it was the Psychic Weaver Fiona “Fi” Gig’hari who’d come to help Hugh.
Are we ready to have fun?
Hugh grimaced. This was exactly why he couldn’t stand Fi: her happy, go-lucky attitude. The grim world of hexes and reavers wasn’t suited for such attitudes and naivety.
“Fun” isn’t exactly how I’d term this, he thought. Though he did not know Psychic Weaving, he could still communicate with her telepathically – after she had Woven a psychic tether between them.
Anything can be fun, if you want it to be.
I don’t count getting half-scorched by a Red Dragon as “having fun.”
She paused for a half-second. Hugh, stop being a misery.
The directness and brazenness of her remark forced him to crack a smile. I don’t know what else to be.
There was another pause, longer this time. So, what’s the issue anyway? she asked, ignoring his previous rebuke.
A Woven dragon, Hugh answered. He could almost see her face light up.
A dragon? Wow! This will be fun!
Hugh sneered. This will not be fun. It hasn’t been fun for me so far.
But that’s before you had me!
He was about to bite back a nasty retort but decided against it. What do you need me to do? he asked her.
Can you lure the dragon into that little cave you’re hiding in? It won’t be able to see me, and I’ll be able to flank it.
The fact that she knew where he was did not surprise him: she could detect and locate individuals’ psychic activity from up to half a mile away. Considering hrt plan for a second, Hugh concluded there was a singular variable she hadn’t accounted for, that being the red-hooded figure who had Woven the dragon in the first place.
After voicing telepathically his fears, she replied, I’m hoping that, with the dragon distracted, its Weaver will be too. Then I’ll flank them both. Don’t worry, Hugh. I’ll be fine.
Good luck, Hugh thought, a shiver running down his spine. As much as Fi irritated him, he had no wish to see her get hurt.
He cautiously angled his head out of the chasm, twitching as the red-hooded figure’s shrill warble stabbed his eardrums. The dragon’s amber eyes blazed as they fixed on him; he ducked back into the chasm, pursued by a line of orange flame. Soon after, the dragon’s snout had buried itself into the chasm, embroiled in plumes of fire.
Well, that didn’t take much, he thought grimly, shielding his face from the flames.
Thank you! Fi called telepathically. Now let’s get to work!
The instant he received her last message, the fire wreathing the dragon’s snout suddenly died – and soon the dragon’s snout had altogether exited the chasm. Acting quickly, Hugh poked his head out of the chasm.
The dragon’s fat, scaly body blotted out from view the entire right section of the pipe – where, Hugh deduced, Fi was. Meanwhile, the dragon’s Weaver, decked out in a red hood and cloak, stood behind the dragon, palm outstretched, warbling frantically at the dragon. It was only then Hugh noticed that the dragon’s huge, black wings we not beating, that its clawed arms stayed firmly fixed to its side. Even its tail, scaled and ending with a dagger-shaped point, was flopped uselessly on the ground. The dragon was motionless.
Hugh smiled. Seems Fi’s using her Mental Lock Weaving to freeze it in place. That way, she’ll soon be able to take over the dragon’s mind and use her Psychic Command ability. That explained the red-hooded Weaver’s frantic warbling: they were trying to guide the dragon out of the Mental Lock that Fi had trapped it in.
Hugh grimaced, looking down at the Weaver, who was stood at the centre of the pipe. Though Fi was a powerful reaver, she was trying to fight Draconic Weaving, which as Hugh had found out, was not an easy task. And with the Weaver’s concentration fully focussed on the dragon and its fight with Fi, it made it even more likely for the dragon to break out of Fi’s Mental Lock.
Hugh eyed the Weaver warily. I need to distract it. Historically, only powerful Weavers could use Draconic Weaving, but with his concentration divided between me and his dragon, it should be a fairer fight.
Yes…do…that… Fi called telepathically.
Hugh could sense she was straining. Don’t pay attention to me – focus on keeping the dragon in the Mental Lock.
Obediently, she did not reply.
Dropping down from the chasm to the bottom of the pipe, Hugh landed with a thud on the cool, water-slicked stone. The red-hooded reaver noticed him immediately; he cocked his head towards Hugh, splayed his arm forward, and bellowed, ‘Adurantur!’
Hugh’s eyes widened as flame billowed from the Weaver’s hand in five baleful torrents, which spiralled towards him. At the front of each torrent, he saw the flame morph and coil into a dragon’s head.
As he sprinted away, Hugh smiled grimly. I need to fight fire with fire. But it had to be a big fire, not like that Simple Weaving he’d used fighting the dream-eaters in St Benedict’s Hospital.
Hugh span around to face the lines of fire rushing towards him. The fiery dragon’s heads splayed open, plumes of fire tearing from their maws…
Hugh thrust his right palm towards the five lines of fire, spreading out his fingers, and wrapped his left hand around his wrist.
‘Illuvinatum!’ he shouted.
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