Behind them, the delaeon swelled like a balloon as the psychic bomb pumped it full of reverse-psychic energy. Once the delaeon was brimmed with reverse-psychic energy, Hugh knew, it and the Dream Realm would implode. They just needed to get out before the middle step happened: the psychic bomb’s explosion.
I certainly wouldn’t survive the explosion, not with all the delaeon’s psychic energy barraging me. He turned to George, who was running alongside him, both frantically ducking and weaving through the crowd of dream-eaters, aiding by the occasional burst of Hugh’s Fire Weaving. I doubt the Ov’l would either. The Ov’ls had great power – including, unlike most psychically-attuned beings and structures, the ability to withstand reverse-psychic powers – but even their power had a limit. Even Sinchara Khan, the most powerful Ov’l user the Reaver Society had ever seen, had not held limitless power.
Hugh knew that well. He grimaced as a memory of Windermere flashed before his eyes.
#
He saw Sinchara, knelt on the floor, watching him closely with those big golden eyes of his. The wind blew across the tower roof; Sinchara’s black locks billowed like a flag in the wind. Like the flag of Death. Indeed, the death he had caused would warrant him the ascension to Death’s greatest servant. Which made it all the more disconcerting seeing him now, cheeks bedecked with tears. His mouth – which had, for so long, been twisted into an angry snarl – was now contorted into an ugly cry.
Hugh eyed his old friend, his old apprentice, with contempt, face tight. His heart pounded. He had to do it; it would be hard, but he had to do it. He had to kill Sinchara Khan.
‘You came once, for Christmas dinner.’ Hugh’s chest tightened at the memory. ‘My mother thought of you as her grandson, the one she’d never had. She cooked you a gammon – she knew you loved gammon.’ Tears were threatening to spill from his ducts; with much difficulty, he straightened himself, attempting to regain his posture. ‘You were my son, Sinchara, and my best friend. You were my son, not by blood, but in the way that matters.’ He inhaled sharply. ‘You are my son no longer.’
‘Father!’ Sinchara suddenly exclaimed. ‘Father…please…’
Sinchara had never called him “father” and knew Hugh never wanted him to call him that – Hugh had even reprimanded him on those rare occasions when it had accidentally slipped out. Of course, though, the man knelt before him was not that Sinchara Khan. He was a new Sinchara, mind warped by the Powers of the Ov’l.
‘Please…’ begged Sinchara’s imitator one final time.
‘ “No mercy to the Ov’ls”,’ Hugh recited, quoting the words of Battlemaster Gorgo Valiant before the Last Siege of the Seven. ‘ “To give mercy is to condemn the dead.” ’ He raised his blade then slashed downward, turning away as Sinchara’s blood spurted into the air…
#
Leading George through the caves and out of the nest, Hugh began to shudder all over. Indeed, as they raced out of the nest, into the derelict lift shaft, he suddenly collapsed to his knees, quaking. A loud bang came from behind, from the direction of the cave. Roaring green fire soared from the cave’s mouth. For a split-second, he heard the squeals and whines of the dream-eaters, before they were cut short as the Dream Realm collapsed around them. Only sentient creatures could survive the psychic discharge of a collapsing pocket dimension – and the primitive and savage minds of the dream-eaters, though fairly evolved by hex standards, were hardly in the vein of “sentient”.
Hugh felt a hand reach for his shoulder – a strong hand. It was George.
‘Are you alright?’ George asked. His tone was one of kindness, of compassion. It did not contain any of the anger or venom which had so often laced Sinchara’s words, especially in the years leading to his death. But still, when Hugh looked up at him, he did not see a smiling youth; no, instead all he saw was those glowing gold eyes.
Sinchara was a reaver once, before he was Turned. He was a good man once, before he was Turned. Hugh sighed. Then he became the most despicable man I have ever met. He glared up at George’s golden eyes. Even the kindest of people can be warped by the Ov’l’s power. Cleo was right: I should never have let George go without wiping his memory. I made a mistake.
And, too, he has already demonstrated his power, against the delaeon. The delaeon was the Heart of the Dream Realm, where the Realm’s psychic energies were at their most concentrated, at their strongest. The fact he survived is nothing short of a miracle – and an omen for all who know the Ov’ls’ power.
No. He is too powerful to be left with the knowledge of what he is, what he can do. His memory must be wiped. I cannot make the same mistake. I cannot create another Sinchara Khan.
He looked up at George and extended his hand; the boy took it, pulling Hugh to his feet. Though George’s eyes no longer glowed with the fierceness of Sinchara’s – they looked completely normal, in fact – there was still something behind them, some glint dancing on the irises.
‘We did it,’ said George, face pulled into a boyish grin.
Hugh nodded and tried to smile, but managed only a grimace; George, though, didn’t notice. ‘We did indeed,’ Hugh concurred. He ignored the cold feeling nagging at his insides.
‘So, what now?’ George asked. ‘What happens now after…’
It wasn’t that George had stopped speaking, only that Hugh had stopped listening. The boy continued with listless questions, what-ifs, and might-bes. Hugh paid it no heed.
You need to do it quickly, he told himself, eyeing George as the boy spoke. You need to do it now. No hesitation. Just do it. The boy will suffer, certainly, but it will save so many others from suffering in his stead. The memory spell would have to be a powerful one to overcome the Ov’l’s psychic defences – powerful enough it could erase George’s whole life from his mind.
Hugh tried not to think about that. ‘George,’ he said suddenly, cutting the boy off mid-sentence. George looked confused for a moment, but remained quiet. ‘I’m sorry, George,’ Hugh finished, taking a step towards him.
George frowned, watching Hugh warily as the reaver neared him. ‘ “Sorry”? For what?’
Hugh did not answer; instead, he took another step closer to George so that he was in reaching distance and, moving in a swift and smooth fashion so as not to give George opportunity to respond, placed his index finger on the boy’s temple. ‘Innisha,’ he muttered under his breath.
And suddenly everything went dark.
#
George watched with furrowed brows as Hugh dropped like a stone to the floor. He dove to the older man’s side, grasping his hand tightly.
He felt for the man’s pulse, breathing a sigh of relief as he felt the steady heartbeat. Indeed, as he strained to hear, the man’s breathing – though shaky and ragged – was still audible.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked, eyeing Hugh nervously. There was no response. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked again, trying to keep the tremors from his voice. ‘What happened?’
Hugh stirred, though still did not reply. The old man raised his head and looked at him with narrowed eyes, blinking dumbly.
‘Hugh?’ George asked tentatively.
‘Who are you?’ Hugh barked.
George’s frown deepened. ‘Who am I – what do you mean? We just, we just–’ He pointed at the entrance of the dream-eaters’ cave. ‘The dream-eaters, the Dream Realm, the delaeon…do you not remember any of that?’
‘ “Dream-eaters”?’ Hugh looked baffled. ‘Boy, respectfully, what are you talking about?’
George’s eyes widened. Now that was concerning. Forgetting their time together was one thing, but forgetting all his knowledge as a reaver was another – and by his estimation, that meant Hugh had forgotten a huge portion of his life. And Hugh was old – a huge portion of his life meant decades and decades, by George’s estimation. Perhaps even centuries, he thought wryly.
He seems only one step up from a Barren, George thought. At least, based on what Hugh told me about Barrens, that is. There was only one thing for certain: Barren or not, Hugh was in no fit state of mind for, well, anything.
What happened to him? George wracked his brain, trying to recall exactly what it was that had happened leading up to Hugh’s sudden collapse.
“I’m sorry, George,” he had said, George recalled. But what reason would he have to apologise? His mind flashed forward a few seconds, finding the answer. He was muttering something under his breath – a spell, perhaps. That would explain a lot. He looked at Hugh, lying there dumbfounded on the floor. He was trying to cast a spell on me? He felt anger rising within him and did nothing to stop it; his fists bunched and his jaw clenched. He wanted me to be like that, he thought, staring daggers at Hugh, who was examining the rocks he was lying on with morbid curiosity. He cast a spell on me…to try to turn me into that…to make me lose my memory…
He gritted his teeth, turned, and glared at Hugh. Hugh, at once, dropped the rock he was holding, bottom lip quivering under George’s hard stare.
Why did the spell fail? Well, that is an easy question. My Ov’l powers are something to do with psychic, and there’s very little more psychic than memory; I reckon when he cast the spell, my mind leapt into self-defence mode, using my Ov’l powers to reverse the spell on him. And this is the result. He looked down ruefully at the whimpering Hugh, a shadow of his former fierce self.
His face twisted into a grimace. I should leave him here, in this state. No doubt he wouldn’t last long. George’s mind was filled with anger, but his resolve was melting. He shook his head and sighed. No, I can’t do that. I couldn’t possibly leave a man on his own to die. I have to save him.
But how?
How indeed? It wasn’t as if George’s knowledge of reavers, hexes, and Weavings was extensive; rather, the vast majority of his knowledge had been cobbled together by guesses, deductions, and inferences. Not exactly a solid foundation – which is what he would need if he was to have any hope of saving Hugh.
He sighed and looked down at his bunched fist, then up at Hugh, who was staring, mystified, at the cave ceiling, as if it was the most wondrous thing he had ever lain eyes on. Only one thing for it. George shrugged. Just punch and hope for the best, right?
With a sigh and an ounce of hesitation, he ran towards, thrusting his bunched fist towards Hugh…
#
Hugh groaned, rubbing his cheek. Everything was cloudy; his mind was like a tangled string. Then, suddenly, the cloudiness dissipated. He remembered everything.
When he recalled George’s punch, he made no reaction. ‘You punched me.’ His tone was matter-of-fact, not accusatory.
George nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. ‘Yes.’ The boy’s response was steely, with no trace of the nervousness Hugh had so frequently detected beforehand, when they’d been in the Dream Realm.
Hugh chuckled. ‘I may have made an error there.’
George hesitated. ‘You bet.’ As Hugh got to his feet, he kept a careful eye on George. The boy glared at him. ‘You were going to wipe my memory.’ The boy’s tone was accusatory, not matter-of-fact.
Hugh nodded. ‘I tried to – wiped my own memory, it seems. Apparently, you’re quite a strong Ov’l. Maybe even as strong as Sinchara Khan.’ At the mention of his old apprentice’s name, he tensed. ‘Don’t ask,’ he added quickly, almost anticipating George’s question.
George paused, still glaring. ‘So, what are you going to do now?’
Hugh smiled. ‘You’re an Ov’l, a loose cannon. Doesn’t help that you’re also very powerful, as seen by this debacle and your beating of the delaeon. But you have a good soul. Only the best of souls would have saved me like you did from my own foolish error. I just pray it will be enough.’
George frowned. ‘Enough for what?’
‘Enough to stop you from going insane,’ Hugh replied simply, walking away. Or any of the other risks that face Ov’ls. He beckoned for George to follow.
‘Where are we going?’ the boy asked.
‘Underground,’ Hugh said. ‘Into the sewers, more precisely.’ At George’s questioning glance, he added, ‘I’m taking you to meet Taskforce Delta of the Reaver Society. I’m taking you to the captain.’ And praying he doesn’t kill you…
--
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