Page 51 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

Ah!Nigel thought, realization bursting through the pain in his head. So that false Mortimer he’d seen being loaded into the wardsmen’s van wasn’t a Brute Boy disguised in enchanted face cream after all. The SSSD surely would have seen through such a subterfuge. But a highly-refined simulacrum wouldn’t set off the same sensors, might pass for the real thing for days on end. Simulacrum sorcery was a deeply hidden secret of the Dark Sorcerer’s craft, after all.

“What gave it away?” Mortimer continued, pacing through the whorling severmist as though it did not bother him in the least. “I thought I’d managed your little Luna’s likeness rather well. I even consulted with your idiot brother in how to make it more convincing, so where did I go wrong?” He snorted then. “Asked and answered, I suppose.”

Nigel slipped his hand into his pocket, gripping another of the egg-shaped crystals. He tried to whip it out, but Mortimer sent another bolt of Dire Matter hurtling, this time infusing it with enough power that it maintained structure, despite the severmist. Nigel lurched to the side, just managed to avoid a skewering. It shattered on the floor in motes of anti-glitter which were immediately devoured by the hungry atmosphere.

Mortimer strode swiftly forward, covering the distance between them. He grasped Nigel by the front of his shirt, dragging him onto his knees. Nigel fought to get his feet under him, to stand against this much older man, but his body was weak after the lifeforce siphoning. Mortimer backed him up, slamming him against the wall. “Did you think your pathetic little wardsman’s gadgets would work on me?” he snarled. “I am a true Master of the Dire! Such petty defenses are as nothing to me! But you . . . great sorcerer that you once were, you’re vulnerable now, aren’t you? That girl has been your ruin!”

He yanked the mask from Nigel’s face, tossing it over his shoulder. Nigel caught his breath, knowing that to draw even one inhale of severmist would mean his death. He fought weakly in Mortimer’s grasp, his strength utterly sapped. Mortimer let go with one hand and began to manipulate essential modalities, drawing more lifeforce straight from Nigel’s soul. Nigel sagged in his grasp, his body shuddering, his lungs begging for air.

“I always knew one day I would kill you,” Mortimer snarled, his devastated face hideous in the purple haze. “I always knew one day I’d have my revenge. But I always imagined a magnificent, sorcerous altercation, worthy of the reputation you once bore! Where is the Grimshade Lord now? Where is the Great Sorcerer of the Age?” He scoffed, spitting in Nigel’s face. “You’re nothing but a damned florist. Pathetic.”

He opened his mouth, a great burst of manic laughter erupting from his lungs. And Nigel took the severmist bomb in his fingers and shoved it between his teeth.

Before Mortimer could react, Nigel smacked his palms hard against his cheeks on either side, shattering the crystal, sending a gout of purple poison straight down his throat.

Mortimer screamed. Shattered shards of crystal cut his lips and cheeks even as the poison filled him up from the inside out. He released the lifeforce he’d begun drawing, and Nigel felt it return to his body in a rush. It gave him just enough strength to break Mortimer’s hold on the front of his dressing gown and throw his opponent to the ground. There Mortimer writhed and flailed, choking as purple grossness dripped from his mouth, his eyes, his ears.

His lungs ready to burst for lack of air, Nigel lunged through the haze and scrambled for his mask. He pulled it on, breathing in, still not entirely trusting the filter to be effective. He more than halfway expected to join Mortimer in death throes, but, somehow, he was spared. The filter still worked, cracked though it was. He breathed in raggedly, his body shivering with the shock of energy-siphoning. It would take some time to recover the loss of that lifeforce.

But he didn’t have time.

Closing his eyes, Nigel searched inside himself, trying to discern if he still had strength enough for one spell. Probably not the major incendiary spell he’d had in mind, but there was still a little something there. Something he thought he could direct, as long as he hadn’t accidentally inhaled any severmist. It would hurt him to perform it, of course. Might even kill him. But he should have enough. For one spell. One summoning.

But he had to find Luna first.

Mortimer’s thrashing form slowed to a few twitches, while his screams lessened to thick, wet-sounding moans. Nigel glanceddispassionately at his fallen enemy.Enemy.Strange. There was a time when guilt had made him think on this man with shame and pity. He knew he had deeply wronged Mortimer. What’s more, he’d followed up that initial wronging by scarring the man for life. He wasn’t some triumphant young suitor who had vied with a competitor for the hand of the same darling lady. No—he was the interloper. The Other Man. And he’d stepped into that role without hesitation, without a thought for what it might do to Mortimer himself.

Now, had he killed his one-time rival? Very possibly. He hadn’t the heart to reach out and check for a pulse. He supposed this made him a murderer. But then, he’d killed before, hadn’t he? He’d killed Jastira, quite thoroughly. Disintegrated her body and banished her soul. Yes, he wore the mantle of killer already. So perhaps one more didn’t make much difference.

Besides, Mortimer had hurt Luna. And intended to hurt her far worse.

For that, there could be no mercy.

Nigel turned away from the now-still body, taking in the chamber into which the Dire Demon had tossed them. The severmist was thick in the atmosphere, but he could still recognize where he had come: a summoning cell. A circular chamber, designed specifically for the summoning of Dire Demons. While it was possible for powerful sorcerers to perform summonings any time, any place—Nigel himself had summoned one in a hotel parking garage not that long ago—a summoning cell’s walls were inscribed with innumerable protection sigils to ensure that, if the sorcerer lost control of the demon, said demon couldn’t escape and wreak havoc on the world at large.

The fact that Mortimer’s portal had led them back to a summoning cell wasn’t all that unusual. What took Nigel by surprise was the fact that he recognized this particular cell. He recognized the sigils embedded in the stones. Ancient sigils,written by long-dead hands in a long-damned language. Only one place he knew of boasted sigils that old and that evil, that saturated in the Dire.

Nocturnus.

Surging to his feet, Nigel staggered, found his balance, and stood for a long moment, heart ramming in his throat. Nocturnus! The Brotherhood had returned to Nocturnus! Well, perhaps that wasn’t altogether surprising. He’d heard rumor that the entire, twisted tower had been magically stolen and relocated to an unknown pocket dimension, much like he himself had stolen and relocated Garden. A massive act of sorcery, likely committed by many sorcerers working in tandem. The Authorities of Plym had already sacked it, leaving the place gutted of spellbooks and workings, but the tower itself was still rife with ingrained magic. The fugitive sorcerers would have been highly motivated to take it back.

Nigel hadn’t actually believed the rumor. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have cared. He wanted absolutely nothing to do with Nocturnus or its denizens anymore. Not after the things he’d seen, not after the discoveries he’d made down in the dungeon depths.

Turning in place, Nigel searched through the haze until he spotted the door set in the thick wall. Most likely the other members of the Brotherhood had transmatterported to other cells within the tower. They would all be converging somewhere, eager to get on with their plans now that Garden’s key and their vessel were both in custody. Nigel would have to move fast if he was going to thwart them.

Hastily, he activated the spell on Yorik Balthazar’s robe. A Dark Sorcerer who knew what to look for might still be able to spy the subtle magic, but he’d like to think the Brotherhood were all so rattled by what had taken place in the granary, he might just slip by. He pulled the hood over his head then approachedthe door. His breath rasped much too loudly through the filter. Damn. He was going to have to be careful about that or he’d give himself away entirely.

Nothing for it. Time to move.

Opening the door, he peered out into the dark hall beyond. The only light source was a low red Dire torch, set in an iron fixture somewhere off to his left. No thaumatic lights in Nocturnus, no indeed. Only the most ominous, dull glow, sparking with motes of anti-glitter as it cast everything in an evil aura. Nigel remembered relishing that very aura upon his first arrival at the Institute. Now he found it unbearably gauche. Who were they trying to impress here, after all?

Voices echoed down the passage. Nigel turned, recognizing several of those voices as former associates of his.

“Oi! Gallowglass! You alive, old chum?”

“Yeah, Stormweaver. Gods-damn it, did you see what happened to Vexley? That damned wardsman put a bullet right through his skull!”

“Where’s Mrs. Anguish?”