Page 52 of A Spot of Tea and Sorcery: Vol. 6

“Damned if I know! I thought Harrow had her.”

Nigel watched the figures approaching, long shadows flickering in the glow of the Dire torch. Hastily, he slipped down the passage until he came to the bend. There he paused and looked back. Eight figures congregated outside Mortimer’s summoning cell. It wouldn’t be long before they looked inside and discovered what had happened to their fellow sorcerer. Their defenses were down at the moment, all of them a bit depleted after demon-summoning. None of these fellows were as powerful as Mortimer, none of them had his natural defenses.

Even so, Nigel hesitated. He hated to give away his presence, but . . . if he had a chance to take down eight of them in one go . . .

Slipping a severmist bomb from his pocket, he hurled it to smash on the wall over Stormweaver’s head. All the sorcererscursed colorfully and ducked, their voices blending together on a theme of “What was that?” Then severmist filled the air, and a chorus of coughing, choking, and gagging followed. Someone shouted, “Dash it all, are the ruddy wardsmenhere?”

Silently, Nigel fled down the passage, found the stairway, and began a too-swift descent. All around him, voices shouted in disorganized chaos. That was one beautiful thing about Dark Sorcerers: they had absolutelynoidea how to work as a team. None willing to submit to the leadership of another, they could not organize themselves enough to put together a search party. Not without Calista Anguish to bully them into compliance.

Robes wafting behind him, Nigel maintained a steady downward pace, moving like a phantom through the darkness of Nocturnus. This old tower was said to be haunted, so he fit right in. He and all the terrible, traumatic memories beginning to rise in his mind, all the little panicked voices screaming in the back of his head. He remembered all-too vividly the last time he’d come down this way. When the rumors had grown too intense, when Jastira’s manic behavior had become too volatile to ignore, when his suspicions had reached a fever pitch. He had finally forced himself to make this descent. Until that point, he’d kept to his own chambers near the top of the tower, where the air was clear, and he felt he could work his strongest magic. Where he could deceive himself into believing he followed some high and lonely destiny, where he could imagine his view was clearsighted, not blinded by hubris or greed.

But eventually he’d gone down. Down, down, down. And faced the truth.

Faced the horrors chained up in dungeon cells, reeking of Dire and despair.

Faced the emaciated forms, almost unrecognizable as human. Begging. Pleading.

Jastira’s own kin—taken and abused as she worked out the details of her Spell of Tremendous Magnificence.

Jastira might be gone. He might have destroyed her body and sent her soul careening helplessly into the Void. But somehow he knew, with an iron rod of conviction planted in his very soul, that yet another one of her kin was even now down in those dungeon cells.

So he continued his spiral until he came to a certain evil-looking door, blazing with protective sigils. Sigils which, at one time, he could easily dismantle. But he dared not use his one spell for that purpose now. If he found Luna—whenhe found Luna—he was going to need that spell to get them out of here.

Grimacing with distaste, Nigel reached into the pocket of his dressing gown and clasped the Counter Sigil Stamp, the one with the sigil based on the theories of Nyxara Blackflame. Time to find out if her theories worked as well in practice as Ward the Wardsman claimed. With a quick step forward, Nigel smacked the stamp in the middle of the center-most sigil.

Instantly, a ripple-effect moved through the protective wards, so powerful he could see them with his sorcerous eyes, even through the gas mask lenses. Strange colors and un-colors undulated as the counter sigil did its work. Within moments, the protective wards came all undone, and the door creaked open.

Nigel stood poised at the top of the long dungeon stairwell. For a moment, pure panic sought to take over, urging him not to go any farther. The last time he’d passed through this door, the entire course of his life had changed irreparably. He’d been forced to face his own sins and failings headlong, to confront the monster of his true self. And the path which had opened before him as a result had led to that final confrontation over the dead body of his father and the decimated Garden. He felt, in this moment, as though he could not face such horrors yet again.

But . . .

Luna was down there.

Nigel plunged forward into that darkness. There weren’t even any Dire torches to be seen, just pure darkness, so deep it was almost tangible. His sorcerous vision was almost useless, and he was obliged to progress by feel more than sight. Which was treacherous. There were places down here where the floor suddenly gave way into bottomless chasms, places where the Void crept through. The bowels of Nocturnus were a veritable labyrinth. How would he ever find the right cell? How would he—

Footsteps.

Turning sharply, Nigel peered down one of many branching passages. There! A Dire-torch. Gripped in the hand of a scurrying, cowled figure. Someone else was down here with him, someone else come to fetch the captive tea witch, no doubt.

Nigel felt in his pocket. He only had one severmist bomb left. Which wasn’t ideal. A Counter Sigil wouldn’t do him much good either. He was rather short on options, except . . .

“Damn,” he whispered.

Then he reached for the Mark IV revolver, tucked safely in its holster at his belt.

On silent feet, he followed the sorcerer, allowing that dark figure to guide him through the labyrinth, deeper and deeper. It seemed like miles of twists and turns, but the dark-shrouded form stopped at last in front of a certain door. Completely nondescript, no different from any other cell door down here, save that it was absolutelybrimmingwith sorcerous ward spells. Eyes narrowed, Nigel watched as the sorcerer worked the various counter sigils, one after another. His pale hands, illuminated in the glow of his Dire-torch, visibly shook with stress.

Hidden in the folds of his invisibility robe, Nigel lifted the gun.“Grip it firmly,”Ward’s voice came back to him in memory.“Front sight on the target. Squeeze, don’t jerk.”

Nigel exhaled slowly, his finger tensing. He waited. Waited until just the right moment. Waited until the counter-spells were complete, and the cell door creaked open. Waited until the sorcerer took a single step to enter.

It occurred to him that he was about to shoot a man in the back. Which, to be honest, didn’t bother him all that much.

But,a small part of him whispered,it might bother Luna.

Nigel grimaced. He wasn’t the hero of this story. He didn’t pretend to be. Still, in the spirit of not being one hundred percent the villain either . . .

“Hey!” he called out sharply.