Another day, another pile of schematics. Tarmid's desk was covered in diagrams that had been copied but a few times over the course of centuries, the original locked away in a hidden vault at the Keep of Saint Zane. On the floor was a jumbled heap of assorted mechanical components, each a different size and shape. Tarmid sifted through the mess, once again lost in the instructions. How hard could it be to replicate machinery from seven centuries ago?
A brisk knock at the door, followed by a call. It was Sir Brenzen. Tarmid welcomed him in without so much as a thought toward hiding his work. The High Magebane refused Tarmid's offer of a seat and stood near the desk, arms folded across his chest. He looked restless, agitated.
"We need to talk, Tarmid. Right now, if possible." His voice sounded hoarse. If Tarmid didn't know better, he'd say Brenzen was scared.
"Very well," he replied. "I'm all ears."
The knight hesitated. An unusual behavior for him. Tarmid took a moment to notice the dark circles under his friend's eyes. Something had to be amiss. Even in sleep, Brenzen was known to be meticulously disciplined.
"What are you working on?" Dodging the issue too. Something had to be amiss.
"A vampire detector, based on the same principles as the thaumometer. Not sure it'll work though." Tarmid let the tension build for a moment before continuing. "What's on your mind, Sir Brenzen?"
Brenzen's thick shoulders slumped. Then he told Tarmid about the dream, the the invasion, and the mysterious voice that had tried to tempt him. Merely telling the tale seemed to be taking the wind out of the knight, and he almost looked older when he was done. Tarmid remained silent for a few moments, thoughts racing in his head, trying to connect the dots and complete the picture.
"Well, I could say it's just a dream and nothing to worry about," said Tarmid, in his most convincing Cornelius impression. "But nothing is that simple around here anymore, is it?"
From within his robes, Tarmid produced the thaumometer. Admittedly, he had never tested the device on Brenzen before. He brought the device toward the knight, filled with apprehension. What if the voice in the dream was right? What would they do if it turned out that Brenzen was highly attuned to thaumic forces? Tarmid had done enough reading to know that, if nothing else, the Order was right about thaumaturgy. It was a force best left alone. Any being who dabbled in it became eventually twisted by it, and ever starving for more. It made gypsum addicts look like functional members of society. Fikod Trumpettrammel was proof of this.
Tarmid approached Sir Brenzen with the device. His heart rate was rising. Within moments, the wood opal would flash, and Tarmid would be lost as to what to do. How could he keep the knight from falling to temptation? Or even keep him safe from the darker forces of the world, who would be drawn to him as moths to flame? His hand approached the knight's chest.
Nothing. Tarmid's trepidation was quickly replaced by a sense of relief. He let himself sigh.
"You see? Just a dream. Nothing to worry abo- oh my."
The gemstone began to glow. The green glass reader started to climb, from an initial zero thaum, up to ten, through twenty, ending at a worrying fifty-six thaum. The wood opal had begun to hum, a low whining noise. Before Tarmid could grasp the significance of this, the glow and hum began to peter out, and the thaumic reader shot back down to zero as quickly as it had climbed.
Tarmid was thoroughly confused.
"What do you suppose that was?"
"I was hoping you could tell me," said Brenzen, doing his best to come off as unfazed.
"I haven't a clue," said Tarmid. "I suppose that's more research that needs to be done."
"There's more," said Brenzen, sounding more like his old, no-nonsense self. The knight stared knives into Tarmid. "That... thing. Whatever it was. It said the Order was lying to me. What do you make of that?"
"Oh dear." Tarmid sighed. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this."
"You knew about this?" Brenzen nearly flew off the handle. "Why didn't you tell me? By the Saints, Tarmid, I thought I could trust you to be truthful with me."
"And I am."
"Then why lie to me, dammit?" That may have been the first time Tarmid had heard Brenzen curse.
"I didn't lie, Sir Brenzen. Not once." Tarmid cut Brenzen's reply off with a masterful teacher's glare. "If anything, I withheld information."
"But why?"
"Because I didn't know."
Sir Brenzen was taken aback at that. Tarmid could understand why. One would stand to reason that the Scribes would know the truth, but the Order kept the truth sealed in a vault beneath their headquarters. Most scribes only saw the censored, adultered version of history, the darkest details filtered out to keep the faithful from faltering.
"It was only when I became Loremaster that I had access to the truth. Or anything resembling the truth, I must say. Yes, the Order lied to us, to all of us. Probably since the very beginning, but I can't be certain."
"Alright, so the Order lied to us," Brenzen said at length. "But why?"
"Where do I begin?" Tarmid sighed. "The simpler facts, I suppose. Our Saints were not exactly examples to dwarven society. Saint Jackal was a guardsdwarf sent to the desert to found a penal colony. Saint Modi wasn't initially Saint Jackal's wife, but a prisoner sentenced for murder who ended up seducing him. Saint Rhaken was a spymaster for the old kingdom and a criminal warlord later in life. Saint Zane was one of his agents. Saint Emdief was an exiled engineer from their Mountainhomes, who came back to life as a woman at the hands of the Fractaldwarf. And Karius Durtis, who mentored Urist McKnight in the years preceding the Migration, was directly responsible for the start of the fall of Steelhold. The majority of the populace had been converted to vampirism, and Karius had them trapped in the deeps and incinerated in a flood of magma before escaping to the surface to chase the Masked One." Tarmid paused for breath. "Shall I continue?"
"Wait." Brenzen was shocked. It looked as if his life had been uprooted and he hadn't the slightest clue what to make of what was left. "Why would the Order lie to us like that? Why keep the truth hidden?"
"If you weren't born into the Order, would you have joined knowing it was founded on the teachings of criminals of the Old World?" Much as he hated to admit it, Tarmid could see the point to the lies. "The Order needed all the numbers they could get, and it's far easier to recruit the young and righteous if they believe they are serving a higher cause, a holy cause. Hence the lie."
Brenzen's icy eyes fell toward the floor as he took it all in. It was only after several moments of contemplating his own navel that the knight chose to speak again.
"You mentioned a Fractaldwarf."
"Yes."
"Our broker is called Fractaldwarf."
"I am aware of that."
"Could it be the same one?"
"After all we've seen in this place, I am all but certain of it."
"Have you spoken to him? It? Something?"
"No. And I would be far more inclined to, if he wasn't described by all counts as a certifiable lunatic."
Brenzen returned to contemplating his navel. He looked for all the world like a dwarf on the verge of melancholy.
"What other lies have we been led to believe?"
"Mostly little things. There are multiple inconsistencies in our records, which leads me to believe we lost sizeable forces at some point without anyone but the higher-ups knowing where they ended up or why. The rest is mostly a number of things that would shake the faith of the most zealous of Knights."
"Such as?"
"I'd rather not be the one responsible for breaking your will, Sir Brenzen," Tarmid replied. "But if you must know, the Apocrypha is full of dark revelations. A good deal of it is nothing more than conjecture and madness, but underneath that..."
"It makes perfect sense?" Brenzen finished for him.
"Yes."
Brenzen scowled.
"I must know, Tarmid."
"Are you adamant about this?"
"Yes. No more lies, no more censoring. I must know."
"Very well." Tarmid went to the back of the room and procured a heavy granite box, its surface engraved in the most intricate scrollwork. The bas-relief in the stone seemed to shift in the flickering candlelight, and in that shifting, Brenzen could swear he saw his nightmares beckoning him.
Tarmid brought the stone box toward Brenzen. The knight reached out to touch it, going against his instinctive revulsion. Tarmid pulled it out of his reach at the last moment.
"Sir Brenzen." He sounded stern. "Whatever you discover when you read this, do not let your faith falter. Lies or no lies, the Saints do watch over us. Of this I am certain."
"How can you know?"
"I just do." They left it at that.
"What do you suppose spoke to me then? In my dream?" Brenzen sounded uncertain, apprehensive.
"I've no idea," Tarmid replied. "But I can guarantee you that it wasn't an ally. Do not fall for its wiles, Sir Brenzen. Magic corrupts. We have seen this with our own eyes. It was your skill, not magic, that has kept you safe. Remember this. Even Armok's champions were not invincible."
"I know, Loremaster," Brenzen said, though he did not sound fully convinced. Tarmid would have to keep an eye on him. "Speaking of magic, what do we do about the Thane situation?"
"For once, I haven't a clue," Tarmid replied. "I suppose we monitor her for now."
"Very well. I'll keep an eye open in the barracks."
"Certainly. And I trust I don't have to remind you to keep that book safe?"
"No eyes but mine will see its pages."
"See to that."
They parted ways then, Loremaster and High Magebane. Once Brenzen was gone, Tarmid eyed the pile of machinery he had been working on. His motivation to pursue that particular line of work had gone down the drain. He had other worries now. He would have to keep a close eye on both Thane and Sir Brenzen, but had no idea how to do it. And he certainly didn't want to invade their privacy. They were his friends, his only friends in the world at this point.
Tarmid knelt before his desk, breathing deeply of the faint scent of book and candle. Then he shut his deep blue eyes and prayed. For Armok knew how long, he prayed, ardent as never before, seeking guidance more than solace. His eyes flew open at the end, and for a moment, he could swear he heard a faint voice, the gruff, rumbling tone of age, whispering to him.
"I hear you," said the voice. Tarmid was sure he imagined it. "I hear you and watch over you."
It had to be his imagination. Gods and Saints weren't known for being talkative to the faithful except in the most dire situations. And things in Demongate couldn't have reached that point already.
Could they?
Tarmid rose gingerly to his feet and walked to one of his bookcases, intent on distracting his mind with some reading. His fingers brushed the spines of many tomes before he settled on The Witch-Hunter's Primer, a centuries-old volume detailing long-outdated methods for locating and taking down practitioners of thaumaturgy. A few hours and many pages later, a strange drawing caught his eye.
A blade of steel and wood opal.
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Topic: Demongate: Wrapping up the Loose Ends. (Read 698826 times)