Chapter 24 #3
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 absolutely brimming with 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.
The sorcerer, whoever he was, whirled in place, Dire-torch high.
And Nigel shot him.
Not in the back. In the front.
The kickback shocked him so much, Nigel yelped in surprise, his voice lost in the reverberations echoing through the tunnel.
For a moment, he was too stunned and his ears too rattled to take in anything else.
Then the sorcerer’s screams broke through.
Shaking his head, Nigel peered down at his victim, who lay writhing on the ground, clutching his knee.
Nigel’s brow lifted a little, even as he shook out his shocked arms. He’d aimed for the heart, but .
. . well, this would do. He’d probably committed enough murder for one day anyway.
“Who’s there?” the sorcerer shrieked between inarticulate groans of agony. “Damned wardsman! Come out where I can see you!”
His weasely voice gave him away: Percival Blackmere, a devout practitioner of necromantic arts. Nigel sneered as he holstered his weapon. He’d always hated Blackmere. But then, that was pretty much par for the course among all members of Nocturnus. They weren’t exactly an affectionate bunch.
Striding swiftly forward, Nigel knelt beside the now blubbering Blackmere.
He was definitely incapacitated, but it wouldn’t hurt to incapacitate him a bit more thoroughly.
Whipping off the tie of his dressing gown, little caring how this made him shimmer back into visibility, Nigel wrenched the man’s hands behind his back and secured them.
Then he squeezed Blackmere’s jaw until his mouth opened and popped an egg-shaped bomb firmly between his teeth.
“Don’t make a sound,” he growled. “That is a severmist bomb. One wrong move out of you, and the crystal will break. Then you can commiserate with Lancelot Mortimer in hell, you bastard.”
Blackmere whimpered, his whole body quivering with a combination of shock and terror. Nigel spared him no sympathy, but scooped up his fallen Dire-torch and stood, facing the cell.
For a moment, he braced himself. He knew he must enter. He had no choice. He must enter and face whatever he found within.
Terrible visions, horrible memories, hideous nightmares danced across his mind’s eye.
Shaking them away, Nigel pushed the door open and shone the Dire-torch inside the cell.
She was there. Alone in the dark. Seated on the stone floor, her back to the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest. Her arms dangled from chains suspended over her head, and her chin was dropped to her chest.
Even in unconsciousness, her face wore an expression of absolute horror.