The following takes place around the time of the Master's visit to Sir Brenzen. If all had gone according to plan, I'd have written it months ago.
Knock knock. Another interruption. Tarmid sighed, threw the tarp back over the heliotrope array. He had been staring at it for over an hour, as one would stare at a naughty child, daring it to perform mischief, daring it to show its darkest omens. His eyes were beginning to burn from the strain.
He walked toward the entrance of his office.
"Who is it?"
"An old friend, Tarmid."
Tarmid's eyes widened. Though muffled through the stone door, he was certain he recognized the voice. Only one dwarf he had ever met could pull off such a natural tone of casual command. But what would he be doing here?
Tarmid opened the door an inch at a time, ready to slam it back in case of a trap. Beyond the threshold stood an old hooded dwarf, his beard flecked in grey. Though disguised as a wanderer, his back and shoulders were ramrod-straight, the bearing of a seasoned commander. Tarmid ushered him in, closing the door behind them. Then he fell to one knee.
"No need for any of that, Tarmid," the Master admonished. "There are more important things to worry about. I bring news. Some good, some bad."
Tarmid rose, struggled with the urge to rub his tired eyes. "What news, your lordship?"
"The good news first, I think."
From beneath his cloak, the Master produced a sterling silver carrying case, no more than a dwarf's forearm in length. Its surface was engraved with the sigil of the Order, placed above a quill crossed with a sword. The symbol of the Scribes.
"Tarmid Lenodbomrek," the Master intoned, ""With the power invested in me by the council, I proclaim you Loremaster of the Order of the Knights of Saint Zane. You henceforth retain all the responsibilities and privileges of the rank." He stared Tarmid in the eye, and broke from the usual speech. "I trust you know what this means."
Tarmid reached for the box as approaching a python, one that would bite him he made any sudden movements. He gazed up at Master Urist, who nodded approval. Tarmid opened the carrying case, examined its contents. A heavy brass key. A silver signet ring set with a single black tourmaline. An iron pendant, shaped like a shattered sword, hanging from a delicate iron chain. His new symbols of office.
"The Apocrypha?"
From beneath the cloak, another silver box. A larger one. Large enough to hold a couple of books, and sealed with three locks. Tarmid took it from the Master's arms with care, deposited it in a stone cabinet and locked the doors.
"You will want to speak with Sir Brenzen," the Master told him. "He is now High Magebane, and requires further education."
"My lord," the scribe said, reticent, "a question, if I may."
The Master nodded.
"Why me? And why Sir Brenzen?"
"Because we have grown short-handed, Tarmid," the Master said, almost letting a crack of sorrow through his commanding tone. "The Keep is empty of all but novices and maintenance personnel. All battle-ready Knights are out there already, fighting the threat to the best of their ability."
"The Enemy moves, Tarmid. What little resistance remained in the southern lands is fading fast. Pockets of civilization are being replaced by people-farms. Most of our contacts down there have vanished. We lost an entire battalion six months ago, and haven't the dwarfpower to investigate the disappearance."
"And before you ask. Loremaster Likot passed away last autumn. Her books will be sent to you in due course. She will be missed."
Tarmid's shoulders sank. The Order always had exactly one Loremaster, the second highest rank a Scribe could achieve. Traditionally, the Loremaster would reside in the Keep, in the Fifth Tower, a restricted area filled to the brim with ancient tomes. Tarmid had dreamed of one day being allowed inside, though not quite like this. And Master Urist had made it clear that the books would be coming to Tarmid.
"That doesn''t fully answer my question, milord," Tarmid dared to venture. "There are many other Higher Scribes, many other magebanes. Why us?"
"Demongate is a funnel, Tarmid," replied the Master, unfazed by the new Loremaster's boldness. "The Steppes of Meditation are the only way into the north. From Demongate, it is possible to monitor all northbound traffic, and intercept it if necessary. The Council promoted Sir Brenzen because we he needs the authority when" -that sounded more like an 'if' to Tarmid- "we manage to send reinforcements. And you can't say he doesn't deserve the rank."
"We promoted you because you need to know the truth."
"The truth?" Tarmid raised an eyebrow.
"Not for me to say, Loremaster. You must see for yourself."
The Loremaster's mind raced with questions, and answers gave chase. He could feel his pulse accelerating as he tried to think of something to say. It took a moment of heavy silence for him to cobble together a sentence.
"Milord, I have a suspicion," he blurted. "The vampire we captured, Ingiz Laststeel. Did you receive my report?"
"I have. I am ashamed to admit that we did not know about King Fikod's... survival."
"Well, I've thought on this for some time now," Tarmid continued. "What he said about the caverns. History tells us that after Nish Woodlabor was slain, the First Iron was met with little resistance against the Bloodkin. Many times, our forces arrived at empty fortresses and simply occupied them."
The Master nodded for Tarmid to continue.
"It is commonly believed that the Knights and the soldiers of the First Iron slew most of the Bloodkin before eliminating Nish, thus breaking their resistance. But what if it didn't happen that way? What if the Bloodkin merely escaped, back across the ocean, through the caverns? That may well be how they arrived in the first place, since nobody remembers seeing Bloodkin ships. What if they are biding their time?"
The Master folded thick arms across a barrel chest. His stern but tranquil gaze gave nothing away, but Tarmid had seen the dwarf around a map table enough times to know when he was in deep thought.
"This Joyce you mentioned. If what you say is true, then Joyce was probably one of the Enemy, and is on his way back to the Old World to bring news. It also means that we will have our hands full monitoring the caverns, since the bloody things stretch under the world in all directions."
"This seems too perfectly coordinated for them. A long-dormant Bloodkin awakens at roughly the same time as they assert dominance over the south. Said Bloodkin escapes, presumably into the caverns, presumably back to the Old World with news. And while this is going on, Testtrumpets stirs."
The old master's shoulders slumped a fraction of an inch. "I do not like this, Tarmid. And as much as I wish, I cannot discuss it with you yet. Read the Apocrypha. Reach your own conclusions. And when I next stop by, we will have much to discuss."
Tarmid nodded, doing his damndest to hide his growing sense of worry. "How much am I permitted to tell Sir Brenzen?"
"That is for you to decide, Loremaster," the old warrior replied. "You outrank me in that area now."
They parted ways then. Master Urist left as quick as he came, and to most of the dwarves of Demongate, he was nothing but an eccentric old hermit, walking through Demongate on the way to the next chapter in his life. Knowing the Master, Tarmid was sure he preferred it that way.
He stashed his symbols of office within his clothing, and made his way down to Cornelius's backroom. The Padre was busy organizing hospital stocks when Tarmid barged in, taking his usual seat with barely a word.
"Evening prayers already, Tarmid? You're hours early," Cornelius remarked, staring up at him over an armload of crutches.
"I'm feeling pious. Now where's the hooch?"
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Topic: Demongate: Wrapping up the Loose Ends. (Read 673640 times)