Chapter 21 #2
“All right, now we’ve got one of these babies.” Ward pulled out a black case, flipped it open, and removed the weapon contained within. “This is a Mark Four Service Revolver. Nothing flashy—just six pieces of lead and a trigger. Nice little thing, dependable. Here.”
Before Nigel could protest, Ward handed it across the space between them. Nigel found himself looking down at a small, matte blue, steel firearm, with walnut grips and a simple brass wardsman’s symbol of two swords, crossed over a bug-eyed seagull. It was unexpectedly heavy.
“How does that feel?” Ward asked, watching Nigel hold the weapon at arm’s length.
“Unpleasant.” Nigel’s lip curled, and he handed the gun back hastily. “Does it have any anti-sorcerous properties?”
Ward snorted. “Yeah. It puts a bullet in a sorcerer and makes him bleed.”
“You cannot possibly expect me to shoot someone.”
“Dark Sorcerers aren’t someone. They’re Dark Sorcerers.” Ward leaned an elbow on his knee and shrugged. “I’ve always found it to be pretty effective.”
“Not if the sorcerer in question has a protective sigil in place.”
“That’s what the severmist is for. Or one of these.
” So saying, Ward pulled out a Silencer.
It was a rod of obliytine metal which, when Ward struck it against the iron window frame, gave off a tinny, unpleasant vibration just on the edge of hearing.
“You see a sorcerer starting to mutter a spell, you sound off one of these, and it jumbles him up pretty good.”
Nigel resisted the urge to scoff. He was familiar with Silencer rods. While they would certainly work on a low-level sorcerer, no one admitted to Nocturnus would be remotely discomfited by such paltry tricks. “I’ll pass,” he said. “Anything else?”
Ward shot him an “it’s your funeral” look before answering.
“How about one of these beauties?” So saying, he removed a large, silver, pentagram-shaped bar, one end of which was carved with a curious symbol.
“It’s a Counter Sigil Stamp,” Ward said.
“If you find a written sigil somewhere, or you think there’s an invisible sigil planted close by, stamp one of these babies on it.
It’s a spell to counter any spell save the biggest ones.
Even those it’ll mess with pretty good.”
Nigel took the stamp and turned it over a few times. He was familiar with the theory behind this tool. The sigil carved into the silver was based on the works of Nyxara Blackflame, quite a Dark Sorceress in her own right back in the day.
“You do realize this is, in and of itself, a form of sorcery,” Nigel said, eyeing Ward. “There’s Dire Matter mixed into the silver. I can feel it.”
“Yeah?” Ward shrugged. “Sometimes you fight fire with fire, right? Keep it on you. It might help in a pinch.”
Nigel pocketed the Counter Sigil. He couldn’t imagine a scenario when it would be useful, but he supposed it wouldn’t hurt anything to have it on him, just in case. “Anything else?” he asked. Other than the severmist bombs, Ward’s equipment supply hadn’t proven as useful as he’d hoped.
“One more,” Ward said and pulled out a vest of shimmering black fabric, very dense and stiff. Nigel immediately felt the profound spellcraft worked into every fiber, not unlike the magic done to his dressing gown—an old spell, just waiting for activation.
Nigel shook his head. “I can’t wear one of those into the meeting.”
“Why not?”
“It only works if the spell is activated. If I walk into that granary wearing an active spell, they will immediately spot it. They’ll strip search me then and find the severmist bombs, the Counter Sigil Stamp, and all. Not a good plan.”
“So what do you plan to do if they start hurling Dire bolts at you?”
“Duck.”
“Yeah, that’ll totally work. Wonder why they didn’t teach us that one at the academy?
” Ward heaved a sigh and slipped the vest back into the case.
“All right, Mr. Dark Sorcerer of the Age . . . what exactly is your big plan here? And how do I fit into it? Or am I done now that you’ve raided my goody bag? ”
Nigel drew himself up very straight in his seat and met Ward’s gaze firmly.
He’d had time to think through his intentions while the wardsman was occupied with snoring.
“I will walk into that meeting and ascertain whether or not Luna is truly there. Once I know she is alive, I will drop three of the severmist bombs. The sound of the bombs going off will be your signal to burst in, guns blazing, and lay down some cover. Sorcerers are cowards at heart; the sound of gunfire will frighten them, and most likely they’ll attempt to make transmatterportation jumps.
But the severmist will confuse their spells, at least momentarily.
Long enough for me to get Luna to you. Then you’ve got to run her out of there. ”
“Is that so?” Ward rolled his jaw, considering. “All right. Sure. Seems simple enough. I like simple. No point in planning for too many unknown variables.” He raised an eyebrow then, shooting Nigel a penetrating look. “And once I get Luna out, what is your follow-up?”
Nigel turned his head to one side, gazing out the window at the rolling winter landscape. “Then,” he said cooly, “I am going to blow them all to kingdom come.”
He felt Ward’s gaze fastened on the side of his face. But he wouldn’t turn, wouldn’t meet it. He continued looking out the window, listening to the click of the train going over rails, counting off the minutes, the miles.
Finally Ward said: “You’re poisoned.”
He was. There was no point in denying it.
“If you’re planning some big, destructive spell . . .” Ward’s voice trailed off for a moment. Then he said all in a rush, “You’ll die. Whether from the spell itself or from the poison in your system, reacting to you casting it. You’re a dead man.”
Nigel took care that his features remained still as stone.
He was perfectly aware of the truth. And he was prepared for it.
After all, the most important thing was to make certain the Brotherhood did not walk out of that granary alive.
Even if they weren’t all present (and he wanted to believe they would be), if he could only take out a decent number of them, it would be worth it.
He would have one shot. One spell. It had to be a big one. Decisive.
He had to know Luna would be safe from this day forward.
“Just promise me,” Nigel said at last, breaking the long silence, “that you’ll get her to safety. That you’ll . . . you’ll look after her. Make certain she’s settled somewhere. Back with her aunties, perhaps. Or somewhere else. Somewhere she can be happy.”
Another long silence followed. More clicks and clacks of the tracks, a piercing toot-toot of the horn, a gust of black smoke rolling by the window.
“Ah, hells,” Ward growled at last, “why does it have to be me to say it?” Cursing again, he leaned forward and pushed Nigel’s shoulder roughly. “Hey. You. Sad sack. You do know she loves you, right?”
Nigel turned, lancing Ward with an icy stare.
“Damn!” Ward sat up, tossing his hands. “Come on, man, you don’t want to go blowing yourself up!
Do you think that’s what she wants? Do you think she’ll ever be happy again if you do something stupid like that?
Don’t you go pulling some idiotic ‘noble sacrifice’ bullshit routine for her sake. You’ll break that poor girl’s heart.”
Nigel set his jaw. “As long as even one member of the Brotherhood is alive—”
“We’ll get ‘em, Grimm. We’ll hunt ‘em down. My boys and I have done a pretty good job of it, you know? In the last couple of months, we’ve taken two of your former buddies into custody.
Montesquieu Fairfax from the granary and that fella from the warehouse the other night, Lancelot Mortimer. We’ll get the rest of ‘em.”
Nigel turned away again without comment.
He knew how impossible everything Ward said would prove to be in the end.
He knew that, even if every wardsman in Brython were summoned for the sole purpose of tracking down the Brotherhood, every resource devoted to their eradication, it wouldn’t be enough.
They would always take Luna. Sooner or later.
Luna who . . . who loved him?
No. He couldn’t think about that. He wouldn’t. Besides, what did Ward know about Luna’s true state of mind? Nothing worth listening to, surely.
Ward ran a hand down his face, muttering angrily to himself.
Then he pulled the Mark IV out from its case once more and leaned across the space between benches.
Opening the cylinder, he showed Nigel the cartridges.
“Six shots, you get me?” He snapped it shut.
“Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire.
Grip it firmly. Front sight on the target. Squeeze, don’t jerk.”
Nigel eyed the gun disdainfully before turning an equally disdainful gaze on the wardsman. “Why are you telling me this?”
Ward heaved a sigh. “Just in case you decide to fight for a life with that girl rather than take the coward’s way out. All right? Now shut up and listen.”