The year marched ever onwards, and Tarmid found himself taking time from his research in favor of regular meetings with the notables of Demongate. Most common were the two-hour meetings with Thane, two to three times per week, to further her education. There were meetings with Sir Brenzen to further the investigation into the missing Codex and the resident vampire, and discussions on strategy. Finally, the occasional meeting with Gnora regarding Tarmid's Writ of Schooling.
It was during one of Thane's late night lessons that they heard the noise. They were going over a chapter on elective monarchies, such as the one in effect in The First Iron.
"The concept of the elective monarchy first came about when our first king, Fikod Trumpettrammel, chose to abandon his duties as monarch in the year 24 without leaving a descendant. For several months afterwards, the nobles of Paddlewash, Bitebronze and Anvilape convened in the Sanctuary of Rims to decide who would inherit the throne." Tarmid turned the page. "Ultimately, they concluded that none among them were willing to abandon their own positions to rule an unstable kingdom still in its infancy."
"I could bore you with the specific names and details, but let's not." The scribe gave Thane a knowing smile. The details were there on the paper. All three pages of them. "In the end, the position fell to Eral Lensthunder, daughter of the baron of Paddlewash. Her rule was a time of stability and growth, though her dedication gave her little time to consider her many suitors. When she passed away, slain by the cyclops Spospo Cloudcontrolled, she was yet unmarried, leaving the First Iron once again without a monarch. So the election was held once again."
A crash deep within the fortress.
"What in blazes was that?"
Tarmid put an ear to the office's mudstone door. Hearing nothing, he peeked through the keyhole. All clear. He opened the door an inch, peeked outside. The stillness was quickly broken by the booming rasp of metal dragging on stone, as if someone was moving furniture. Could it be the sarcophagus?
He motioned for Thane to remain still, and she complied. Tarmid shut his eyes, blocking out his sight in favor of his hearing. Far beneath him, dim through the distance and silence, came the faint sounds of a struggle. There were many possible explanations for the sound, and none of them were pleasant. The safest course of action was to stay inside and barricade the door. But Tarmid knew full well that such a course of action could have a tremendous cost in dwarven life in the worst-case scenario.
He shut the door, slow and silent. He approached Thane, and spoke in a library whisper.
"Thane, something is going on down below. I propose we go find someone to help. Preferably, someone heavily armed."
He moved to the door, Thane on his heels. Though he could no longer hear the struggle, Tarmid felt certain that it wasn't over yet. Nothing bad ever ends quickly.
"We'll sneak through the halls as quick and quiet as we can. First Vlad, if he's sleeping in his bedroom. Then Sir Brenzen."
"Take no risks," he admonished. "I don't know what we're dealing with here, but I doubt it's as simple as a late night tantrum."
On his signal, the scribe opened the door and stalked outside, moving as silent as a cat on the prowl. He thought on the sarcophagus, how he had tried to examine it yet found nothing of particular interest. A quote sprang to mind, one believed to have been uttered by Grandmaster Cilob Helmedswallow himself.
If faith alone sufficed, the cynical knight had said, we would charge into battle naked.
The hairs stood on the back of Tarmid's neck. He felt naked in his light civilian garb, devoid of all protection in his midnight blue cloak. He mouthed a silent prayer of protection.
For tonight, faith would have to be enough.
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Topic: Demongate: Wrapping up the Loose Ends. (Read 697944 times)