King Alarag

King Alarag wasn’t listening. The discussions of the council echoed around him but the sound, like the guttering light of the torches lost in the shadows, dissipated up into the vaulted ceiling of the high throne room. Deep down Alarag yearned to return to workshops. After two hundred years of ruling Karak Grimnil and the Runesmiths’ Guild he was tired, and now longed for the heat of the furnaces and the ringing hammers of his youth. The masters who were being raised nowadays just didn’t compare to those of his far away homeland. Not that many here remembered that place anymore. There were precious few dwarfs left who could be counted old enough to remember the lands to where the Dwarf race traced its lineage. Nearly every Dwarf in the Kingdoms had been born and raised on this new world. True, there was good stone here, but…

The palpable silence around him brought Alarag from his nostalgic reverie. He looked up from the mess of ledgers and reports to notice the new arrival. Recognition brought a smile that cracked his leathery features. “Harval!” he bellowed at his old comrade. Alarag rose from the table and made a move to embrace his friend. “I thought you’d gone north with the prospectors?”

The white bearded dwarf cut a courteous bow but did not return the smile. “Alarag, King, I came as quickly as I could. I knew High King Morgrim would not receive me as you would.”

“Enough of the ‘King’ nonsense, you miserable old grobi,” Alarag chortled, not seeing the pained look etched upon Harval’s face. “What’s up? A thirst, is it? Ale!” The King gestured, somewhat unceremoniously. “Quickly, am I your king or aren’t I? Someone fetch this rascal some ale!”

Harval advanced slowly, tucking his beard into his belt. “No, please... Alarag hear me, I bring word from the new holds in the north, by the Sigmarites-

“Hah! I knew better men in the old lands-“

Harval tried to press on, “I came by ship, Undin’s Vengeance, to warn y-”

“Ah, a fine ship” the King interrupted, “Harval, have you seen the canal we have built in the south? It’s a –“

“Ghouls!” Harval almost winced as he said it, as if the news he bore gave him great pain. It was a single, shouted word, but it leapt around the chamber like a spark threatening to ignite a magazine. “Ghouls, my liege” He repeated the word again, slowly and more quietly.

The throne room was utterly silent. “We wiped them out.” The King half grumbled, half whispered the words, as if their utterance might be enough to bring evil back to haunt them again. But the morbid expression Harval wore gripped the council with fear. Alarag brought himself close enough so that none of the others would see his desperate disbelief. “You’ve come here chasing some half-tale that simply cannot be true!” It was supposed to be an accusation, but sounded in Alarag’s hoarse whisper to be more like an appeal; some other news, anything else. Please, not this.

Harval was unperturbed. “There is word of them in the lands of men. Perhaps just stories, ‘tis true no Dwarf has seen them, but the Elves...”

Someone behind Alarag spat at the mention of “Elves” and more than one greybeard harrumphed his displeasure. Dwarven distaste for Elven-kind was the worst kept secret in the kingdom. Harval scowled down his detractors and continued, “The Elves claim have seen them, fought them even, and have been defeated. I do not think they would lie, Alarag, not in this. And now Karak Haraz grows next to those lands…” He left the rest unsaid.

Age and grief tinged Harval’s voice. The mood in the hall had grown a deal darker, and the air itself seemed chilled as if by mere mention of the ancient foe. “How many of us are left who fought in the Ghouls Wars and still live, still remember Alarag? Morgrim wasn’t there. And the humans think they are just tales to frighten children.”

The elderly king sagged back onto an oaken chair next to the council table. He rubbed his brow, eyes closed as if trying to fight back the flood of unwelcome memories. Finally, he opened his eyes again and spoke. “Grunmar - You take over here.” The slightly less elderly dwarf across the table looked shocked and went pale. He began to stammer out his objections, but before he could speak the crash of the crown hitting the table silenced him.

“Gather our best smiths.” Alarag spoke in a tone that brooked no debate. “Spread the word amongst the other Kings. Pass on to them the… advice… the Elves once gave us long ago. Send word of this to young Morgrim; tell him I’m going north with all our strength. If there are Ghouls amongst the humans, then war will be upon us again. Soon.” His mouth twisted into a sardonic half-smile half-grimace. “I flattened them before, I’ll do it again.”

As Alarag strode from the throne room his mind reeled with old memories. His hammer crashing down as ravening ghouls clawed over the bodies of his fallen comrades. Fluttering flames of an ancient city burning. The face of the tyrant Scorpius swam up before him, fanged mouth screaming black rage, driving at him with a bloodied sword. Memories that haunted his nightmares still.

He was young back then, and strong. But so many good friends had perished in that terrible war. He would have to fight again now, and once again a heavy price would be paid in the blood of his kinsmen.

“Make sure someone packs some good ale and tabac…” The orders of Alarag, once King, trailed away, his voice lost in the shadows.