Year 7040 by Dwarf Reckoning
The Everpeak was the heart of the dwarfen realm of Karaz Ankor. The most ancient and well-established hold in the entire Everlasting Realm, it was carved out of the heart of a mountain and extended far underneath it, halls burrowing outward for miles down and outward. It held more wealth in its vaults alone than some continents, and it was home to more ancient treasures and archives of lore than all the other dwarfen realms combined. It was home to the fearsome High King of the dwarfs, Thorgrim Grudgebearer, when he was not on one of his frequent campaigns to wrest the empire of the dwarfs from its slow decline. Now was one of those rare times, and Thorgrim was secluded in his opulent chambers hollowed out just under the peak of the mountain.
He was not happy, as was often the case when he came to Karaz-a-Karak and saw what awaited him there.
--
The High King brooded in chambers that eclipsed the wealth of most cities. He stared angrily at priceless treasures recovered from long-fallen holds, grumbled at the meticulously preserved heads of some of the greatest enemies of dwarfkind, and attempted to bore a hole through the Phoinex Crown of the elgi with his eyes alone. He was a dwarf facing the inevitable, refusing to bow aside from the pressure that fate had set upon him, though he knew that without some unseen solution he was doomed to break.
I am bound by oath! he thought as he thunderously stacked hundreds of gold coins into a small pyramid, the motion more a gesture to calm himself than a deliberate action.
I swore before the entire Karaz Ankor upon my ascension to the Throne of Power, I shall restore our people out of the decline they've been trapped in since the Time of Woes, avenge every last grudge in the Dammaz Kron, see my people prosper once more! Yet what stood in what would be the bedchamber of a lesser king was burned into his mind as thoroughly as it had been over two centuries ago when he first found it. The words shone in his mind's eye still.
THE HIGH KING SHALL LEAD THE DAWI TO GRIMNIR'S SALVATION
AND MARK A GRUDGE DOWN TO BE AVENGED
He knew exactly what it meant; prophecy might be ephemeral and unclear for other races but if a dawi were to see the future they would see it as stone, carved in reality and immoveable.
Unchangeable.
But therein lay Thorgrim's quandary - he could not fulfil the destined role the High King would play in the only sure way for the dawi to survive what was to come without violating the oath that had defined his entire reign. And he refused utterly to burden his line with a Slayer oath like Ungrim Ironfist's forefather had done so long ago; to do as such would be to throw his species into a fatalistic death march, and he would face the apocalypse head-on alone rather than subject his people to such a fate. So every time he came back to Karaz-a-Karak he isolated himself in his chambers whenever he was not occupied with some function or other and butted heads with fate, trying to eke out some solution that let him walk away with his word upheld and his people saved. He had been trying for over two hundred years and knew time was running short, but kept trying. He was dawi, he would break before he bent willingly.
Finally breaking his gaze from the emblazoned image of one of his forefathers on a platinum coin, he strode away, rubbing his eyes. He would find something, he refused to believe otherwise, but he had little time to waste on this foolish diversion nontheless. Walking into the chamber where the Throne of Power was stored when not on campaign or holding court, he nodded curtly to the Thronebearer standing guard by the door and sat heavily in the unyielding seat, knuckling his brow in frustration.
The Thronebearer saluted, his fist over his heart, and bowed. "Shall I retrive a cask of ale, my king?"
Thorgrim waved him off. "Don't bother, Harek. Much as the idea appeals to me, being drunk will do me no good as I am. I'm brooding enough already. No, what I need is ... tell me of some small trouble that's cropped up inside the hold, one that we ususally allow the clan heads or guild leaders to deal with. I need to fix a situation, even an inconsequential one."
While the Thronebearers were not dedicated to collecting information like the multiple accountants and various other spies the High King employed, they made it their business to know a good amount about the goings-on wherever they were in order to better ascertain possible threats to their liege. So Harek Darronsson thought for a few moments, and then straightened up as an idea came to his mind.
"There is something, my king. It would normally not warrant your personal attention, but given the nature of it no one would think anything of it."
"Tell me."
"Your son, Rorek, my king. He has been getting on Loremaster Magrumm's nerves lately, barraging him with question after question about various facets of history, though mostly your own campaigning. It's not the first time something like this has occurred; normally he'll attach himself to a longbeard for a few years or so, incessantly pestering them about their profession until they get tired of it. Magrumm's just about at that point, and if you wished I believe you could intercede on either side's behalf."
Thorgrim heard all this and considered. Something else beside the immediate situation in Harek's explanation had caught his attention. "You say he's done this before? Margrumm is a historical archivist, what other professionals has he attached himself to?"
Harek shrugged. "Many, my king. Everything from thanes to ironbreakers to engineers to brewers - he has a wide variety of interests, and his status as your son ensures most everyone humors him for at least a while."
Thorgrim considered this, the gears of his mind beginning to churn. "Does he actually learn anything, or does he just enjoy being in the presence of experts?"
"By all accounts, my king, he's of a keen mind in any subject that captures his attention. A large volume of the complaints he generates are that he learns too much to be taught more without being taken on as an apprentice, which none of the longbeards he pesters have the time and inclination to do even if they were permitted."
Thorgrim's mind raced. This described pattern of behaviour could simply be a sign of boredom caused by youth; his son was only thirty-four. But it could also be a sign of genuine ingenuity - not that he would know which, having spent virtually no time with the beardling due to the demands of his position. True, he could arbitrate a decision toward Rorek or Magrumm's side as he chose, but the more Thorgrim thought about it, the more a third line of choice appealed to him. It was a long shot, but if his son truly had inherited as much of his ancestor's wisdom as it seemed, he may just be the key to solving a formerly inescapable dilemma.
"Find the boy, wherever he is, and bring him to me," he said at length. "I think it is due time for me to have a talk with my heir."
--
Rorek Thorgrimsson was sitting in his unofficial corner in the Archive of the Everpeak when the Thronebearer found him. The young prince was reading from a tome called
A Rebuttal To The Outlandish And Thoroughly Undwarflike Proposal By The Junior Engineer Burrlok Grambnisson Involving Designing A Weapon That Utilizes A Substance Known Widely To Be Far Too Unreliable For Use In Real Combat, That Being Explosive Powder Of The Sort Usually Used In Mining Charges And The Like And A Thorough Dissertation On Why Pursuing This Idea Is Entirely Valid Grounds For Permanent Expulsion From The Engineer's Guild Of The Karaz Ankor, Authored By Senior Engineer Lunn Burntbrow. It was part of the labyrinthine arguments between engineers in the guild as they dickered endlessly, noted down into runes for posterity. This particular argument spanned over six hundred pages and thoroughly dissected every possible angle on why it would be a foolish idea to ever even think of incorporating gunpowder into a weapon.
It was dated to the beginning of the Goblin Wars, when the extent of the threat the grobi posed was only just being realised.
Not wanting to startle the prince, Harek made his footsteps loud as he approached through the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Rorek looked up at the sound, his bluegrey eyes blinking as he glanced at the Thronebearer. His silvery blonde beard shone in the light of the runic lamp he was reading by. His expression brightened as he recognized the burnished gromril armor of Harek's station.
"Ah! Honored Thronebearer," he exclaimed, carefully setting the book aside and standing. "I am honored to finally meet one of you in person. My father sent you to arbitrate between myself and Loremaster Magrumm, I presume?"
Harek shifted his weight from foot to foot. "While that matter has been brought to your sire's attention, my prince, it is not that dispute that brings me here now. The ..." He trailed off as he noticed Rorek staring intensely at his helmed face, one hand absentmindedly stroking his relatively short beard.
"My prince?"
Rorek shook his head abruptly, clearing whatever daze had come over him. "My sincerest apologies, I was just attempting to recall your name. Forgive me if I am incorrect, I should have this memorized by now, but you are Harek Darronsson?"
Harek raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "Yes I am, my prince. How did you recognize me? To my knowledge we've never been introduced."
Rorek chuckled. "I asked your names from Archivist Krull a few years back and had him point out to me which one of you was which in some engravings of my father's campaigns. Of course the images weren't as clear as I would have liked, so I went looking and found an archive of all past and present Thronebearers. That helped somewhat with sorting out your individual distinguishing features I could discern, and after some time carrying around that book wherever I went and comparing the images of your fellows and you in the book to the genuine thing whenever you were in Karaz-a-Karak, I was able to memorize which one of you was which based on various things. The sound of your voice, the way you shift your weight from foot to foot when you're not doing anything," - Harek abruptly paused this selfsame movement as he was made aware of it - "And a few other things you do that no other Thronebearer does."
Harek blinked. "An impressive effort, my prince. But why go to such lengths? You are not High King yet, you've no need to recognize his bodyguards on sight."
"While my father will hopefully live for many more centuries before passing into the halls of the ancestors, I see that as no reason to not prepare for my eventual responsibilities now. A good king presumably knows the names of his own Thronebearers, after all. It's for much the same reason that I've petitioned many times to accompany father or one of the other kings on campaign sometime, though I can understand the reasons for his refusal, the royal line must be preserved after all." Rorek broke his gaze from Harek's face momentarily.
Harek, as one of the dwarfs who had delivered a few of the young prince's requests to his father over the years, privately wondered how deeply Thorgrim's refusal to endanger his son was rooted in pragmatism and how much was simple refusal to remarry should the boy be killed. The High Queen and King had been quite close in his memory. "I can't tell you why or why not the High King refuses your requests," he admitted, "But this does bring me back to the reason I came here. Your father wished to see you, though he did not say what for. I am to bring you to him should you have no pressing business at present."
Rorek's face lifted in mild shock. "My father wishes to see me? In person?"
"Yes."
"... well. I assume he would not wish to be kept waiting. We should go?"
"Indeed, my prince." Harek bowed at the waist and turned about-face, waiting until he heard the sounds of Rorek clearing his space before proceeding with the prince in tow.
They were halfway up the hold to Thorgrim's chambers when Rorek spoke again. "Harek?" He puffed, slightly out of breath.
"Yes, my prince?" Harek answered, not even breathing hard.
"If I call you by your name, could you call me by mine? I understand the requirements of rank and everything else, but the title gets a tad unwieldy, don't you find? Rorek will do, if you aren't uncomfortable with it."
"...very well, my prin- Rorek."
"My thanks," Rorek said, flashing a grin.
--
Harek bowed to Rorek once they reached the outer entrance to Thorgrim's chambers.
"I will leave you here and return to my regular duties, m- Rorek. The High King wished to meet with you in private," he explained.
Rorek nodded. "Of course, of course." He paused and furrowed his brow. "You have other duties? It was my understanding that the Thronebearers guard the High King when he goes into battle and bear the Throne of Power on their shoulders. What else do you do?"
Harek grinned. "We guard the High King, yes. However, we take a very broad view of that phrase. My sworn trommbaraz* and I keep a few information networks running, coordinate guard shifts on the first few levels of the hold below this one, review defences, and other things of that nature. To better ensure the High King's safety and such, you understand."
"I think I do," replied Rorek, smiling. "I won't delay you, then." He stuck his hand out. "Glad to have met you, Harek Darronsson."
"Likewise, Rorek Thorgrimsson," the Thronebearer replied, gripping the outstretched hand firmly. He then bowed and exited, leaving Rorek alone in front of the door to Thorgrim's chambers.
--
Forty-three minutes later
Rorek stared uneasily at the door before him. It was not particularly imposing like the doors that led to the Throne Room of the Everpeak, forged of gromril and engraved with histories of the dawi's greatest triumphs and strengths, standing thirty feet tall and only openable by specialized systems of gears. It was a solid slab of stone slightly higher than the height of a dwarf, set into the wall so that the untrained eye would not see the seams, for the private quarters of the High King were a place where the sovereign of the dawi could go for reflection and repose without the demands of ceremony.
Nevertheless, it was an imposing entryway. Despite his initial eagerness, Rorek had no idea what Thorgrim could want to see him for. He had hardly seen the high king throughout his short life, the monarch being near-constantly on campaign. Even on the occasions when Thorgrim was at Karaz-a-Karak, his time was wholly occupied by various petitions and oaths and delegations. The closest Rorek had gotten to his father prior to this was through various records of his deeds, vicariously living the avenging of various grudges through the tomes. To recieve such direct attention so suddenly was disconcerting.
After a long while of staring at the door and chewing on his lip, Rorek gathered his resolve and knocked thrice. With a rumbling grind, the slab of stone smoothly slid into an alcove, revealing an antechamber beyond. Rorek hesitantly stepped in, and jumped slightly when the door closed behind him. Unsure what exactly was expected of him, he walked forward slowly until he stood in the center of the room. He waited there for a time, peering down the various hallways leading out of the chamber, and was duly surprised when Thorgrim suddenly appeared from one so cunningly set into the stone that his eyes had passed over it entirely.
His father was an imposing figure; even without his full battle armor on he was taller and broader than most dwarfs, and his beard was long and lush, a cascade of lustrous white that covered his chest and spilled down to his knees. He wore the Dragon Crown upon his head, the snarling figure upon it so lifelike it looked apt to jump off the crown and fly away, and his eyes were a clear, piercing blue.
"...Father," Rorek managed after a few moments of silence. "You wished to see me? If this is about my interactions with Loremaster Magrumm, I can assure you I only meant to -"
Thorgrim raised a hand and Rorek stopped speaking. "No, my son. That is not what I brought you here for, as persistent as you evidently are with pursuing Magrumm. I called you here to ascertain your character and what manner of dawi you are. Follow me." He turned and walked down a hallway, and Rorek quickly fell in behind him, befuddled as to what he could mean.
They eventually came to a chamber that had a door forged purely of gromril, with a hand-shaped indentation in the center. Thorgrim placed his palm in it and runes arrayed around the indent lit up, allowing the door to swing open. Within was the Throne of Power itself and a smaller, ordinary chair set in front of the venerable artifact. While Rorek was gaping at the sheer aura the Throne gave off, being the first time he'd seen it this close, Thorgrim settled himself into it and beckoned to the other chair. "Sit."
Rorek obeyed and sat in the granite seat, hands folded in his lap, feeling slightly contrite though he'd done nothing wrong, such was the weight of Thorgrim's gaze.
At length the High King spoke. "For what purpose do you question professionals of all ages and professions until they tire of you?"
Rorek thought carefully before answering. "I'm the heir to the Karaz Ankor, and the son of one of the best High Kings there have been in over a thousand years. I figure if I don't hold myself to a high standard, I may not be able to build on what you accomplish during your reign properly, and if our empire's going to regain the glory it held in the Golden Age I can't have that happening." He grinned sheepishly. "Also to occupy my mind. Karaz-a-Karak may be the greatest bastion of our people there is, but you run short of things to do if you don't leave for thirty-four years."
Thorgrim brooded on this answer for quite some time, turning it over and over in his head like an apprentice engineer building their first crossbow. "Commendable reasoning," he allowed at last. "Very well then. If you wish to be the best heir of my reign that you can be, I will make you into that. It has been regretfully necessary for me to neglect your education like I have, but no more. Now, let's see what you've learned from all that pestering of your elders you indulge in."
For the next several hours, the two talked in that rune-lit chamber, Thorgrim painstakingly analyzing everything Rorek had learned over the course of his life. He found his son's reserves of knowledge well-stocked, though largely theoretical in most appliable domains such as statecraft and other large-scale management skills. Understandable given the lad had no experience with that sort of thing. More importantly, he had a good knowledge of history, able to accurately name events that had happened more than three thousand years back from memory. By his own admission his combat skills weren't nearly as good as other beardlings his age, but he was young as of yet and would not be seeing pitched combat for quite some time. Overall, he was a bright young dwarf with a wide variety of largely theoretical or book knowledge and a good grasp of history. A good start, more than Thorgrim had expected. Of course this would only let him climb all the higher.
--
"I had no idea that your personal quarters were so large, father," Rorek confessed as the two entered a chamber that would be fairly spacious if it were not packed near wall to wall with enormous books. "What is this place?"
"You know of the Dammaz Kron?" Thorgrim asked in response.
Rorek furrowed his brow. "Of course, father."
"That tome, enormous as it is, contains only the most momentous and grave offences perpetrated against our people," Thorgrim informed him. "This," he gestured to the veritable library filled with tomes, "Is everything else."
Rorek gaped.
Everything? That would mean ... the small grudges, ones settled between individual dwarfs or families, that often were resolved quickly and without fuss. Perhaps the ones that clans tended to nurse for centuries but never really affected day-to-day operations. Those grudges ... if there was a record for every one of those, it would look ... actually rather similar to the sight before him, actually. With a start, he realized something - all the books were identical, enormous texts bound in thick leather with preservation runes engraved into the bindings. The only different thing between volumes was numerals imprinted on the spines. Taking a closer look at one, Rorek saw that it merely said '462'. He was so engrossed with examining the book that he nearly missed what Thorgrim said next.
"You're going to memorize them," he said.
Rorek blanched. Surely he meant something else than that, right? "P-pardon, father?"
"Memorize it. The Dammaz-a-Zagaz** has been accumulating since the days when Grungni still walked the mountains, and each High King since has shouldered the burden his fathers left behind. I do not expect you to accomplish this straight away, you're only a beardling, but think of it as a measure of your progress. When you have imprinted the history of our people fully and truly into your mind and know every grudge by heart, then you will be ready."
"Ready for what?"
"We shall speak of that after you've finished here. It's a good thing you've a solid grasp on history, it'll help you out here. I would know," Thorgrim chuckled, clapping Rorek on the back, pushing him toward the shelves of books. "You'd best get started now, to save time. Follow the numerals until you find the first volume, and work your way up from there."
Blinking in slight shock, Rorek dutifully stepped forth. "Where will I sleep, father? Walking to and from my quarters lower in the hold will be time-consuming."
"I'll have your possessions brought to a room adjacent to this one. You'll live here for the time being, though don't expect your bed to get much use in the next few years. Those who have an abundance should have much demanded of them, and I'll see it so. Get going now, lad," he said, turning about and exiting the archive. Rorek gulped and tentatively made his way into the imposing accumulation of information.
--
Over the next five years, Rorek's life became drastically busier than he'd formerly been accustomed to. The first few days were simply a struggle in reading the great tomes, for the print in them was so small as to make the pages seem nearly black. For hours each day he would pore over them, wearing special glasses that magnified his vision in order to properly see the text. Then he would meet with Thorgrim later in the day, and his father would then spend several more hours drilling the fundamentals of ruling into his head. Thorgrim was an uncompromising teacher, and would not permit any progression onto the next topic should he make a single mistake. Fortunately, Rorek learned quickly. He absorbed his father's hard-earned lessons on everything from generalship to economics. Thorgrim had him examine maps from mid-campaign to determine the most optimal move and run the treasuries of fictional holds. After several hours of this Rorek would return to the archive and read for a further stretch of time before stumbling to his bed, and repeat the whole cycle the next morning.
As he gradually became accustomed to the task of memorization, he found himself intrigued, for the grudges in the Dammaz-a-Zagaz, though largely resolved in the early volumes he read, lay thick enough that he could grasp the history behind them. A surge in grudges involving manlings indicated a raid against a trade caravan in the north, and more. He felt an unexpected connection to those dwarfs of ages long past, as he experienced their triumphs and tragedies, made no less important by their lack of impact on the wider world.
That was not the end of it, of course. As Rorek progressed through the archive, Thorgrim's time eventually grew more limited, and soon he could no longer spend hours tutoring his son in the art of ruling. Instead, inspired by the event that had brought his son to his attention in the first place, he assigned various tutors to him in order to fully educate him in every field he needed. One of these, in a bit of irony, ended up being Loremaster Magrumm, who kept a wry expression of skepticism on his face for the entirety of his tutelage. Rorek's time was crammed with studying, tutors with even higher standards than Thorgrim and a fraction of his patience all packing their knowledge into his head at the same time. At first Rorek could barely understand what they were saying, for they plunged him into the metaphorical deep end of their fields of study, but with a great effort of will he somehow managed to barely keep up with them while still devoting time to memorizing the Archive.
Rorek's studies progressed further and he committed more and more of the Archive to memory. He read of the great triumphs of his people, and ground his teeth at the indignities suffered during the Time of Woes and the War of Vengance, and even beyond. Soon even more was piled on him, as some days he would be woken up and lead to a training hall where he would train in combat against one of the Thronebearers. He inevitably came out of these all-day training sessions exhausted and bruised, and he made mediocre progress at best, no matter what weapon he used, but he quickly learned all the names of the Thronebearers and befriended them to a dwarf. He soon had at least one escorting him anywhere he went, and he made a point of using them and their information networks to stay informed of the happenings in the rest of the hold.
What they told him piqued his interest, and though he was burdened under a courseload that left him scarcely three hours of sleep per day, he urged them to investigate further, directing them with increasing skill as he learned more of intrigue.
Thorgrim was doing something, though Rorek could scarcely tell what. The Thronebearers reported to him of countless favors called in with kings and thanes across the Karaz Ankor, many of them visiting Karaz-a-Karak itself and leaving with grim faces set in determination. Great amounts of supplies of all sorts were stockpiled in the bowels of the Everpeak, salted meats, seeds for all kinds of plants, breeding stocks of animals, and everything a dwarf would need to found a new hold, but on a far more massive scale. Over the course of a few months the foundations for several great throngs were laid, and many expeditions were lead into lost holds, not to reclaim them, but to recover any and all artifacts they could from them. Runepriests across the kingdom were commissioned to produce particular rune items in great amounts on order of the High King. The Anvils of Doom themselves were carefully transported to the Everpeak, each guarded by a full throng. Strangely, the grumbling and dissent that such sudden changes would normally cause was mostly absent, and the guilds encouraged the enactment of the measures Thorgrim was introducing. Rorek suspected his father had been speaking with the heads. To what end he was doing all this for, however, Rorek could not discern. It was preparing for a disaster of some sort, that was clear, but of what sort was impossible to tell.
He did his best to keep track of what was going on while his studies progressed, and managed to keep up, albiet barely, with his instructors. As he made his way ever closer to the end of the Archive he even made some small improvements to his combat skills. At last, one day he reached the end of the archive and tottered to bed. When he woke up, he found Harek standing over him, almost like how they had met such a short time ago.
"It's time," the Thronebearer said, his expression bearing a gravity it was normally devoid of. "Follow me." Confused, Rorek quickly got up and followed Harek through the still-confusing maze of passageways that made up Thorgrim's chambers until they came to the doorway to the chamber Thorgrim had first talked to him in five years ago. Here Harek paused and placed a gauntlet on Rorek's shoulder. "Good luck, youngster," he murmured, and then removed one gauntlet and placed his hand in the indent. He stepped aside as the runes lit up and the door swung in seemingly of its own accord, to reveal Thorgrim sitting on the Throne of Power.
Rorek stepped forward, concealing his apprehension behind his now controlled demeanour. "Father,' he said, bowing.
Thorgrim nodded in reply. "What was the 43rd grudge recorded on the nineteenth day of the fifth month of the year 3482? If it was resolved, when and how was the matter settled? If not, who still bears it today?"
Rorek thought carefully for many minutes. This was obviously a test to see if he had truly committed the grudges to memory, and he wouldn't get a second chance to prove himself. "That particular grudge was set between two rival brewers, Henna Stonetooth and Borgrod Haskinsson, one of clan Yinlisson, the other of clan Ambereye. Due to an uncannily similar taste in decor, their breweries, which were located directly next to one another, looked nigh-identical save for Henna's having one more barstool than Borgrod's. On that particular day, the two travelled to their respective places of work hungover from the previous night and mistakenly entered each other's breweries. They eventually realized their mistake, but only after making a substantial amount of sales, and adding the gathered income to their own accounts. They quickly made to swap places without either of them seeing the other, but ran into each other and quickly engaged in an argument about who owed whom however much money. Due to the fact that they both had customers who ran tabs, neither could determine how much profit they had unintentionally stolen from one another, and both declared a grudge on the spot that until the matter had been settled and they had been paid back in full, they would prevent each other by making any further profit by drinking all of their liquor themselves. So they went into each other's establishments, carried a great many casks out into the street, and began angrily drinking in front of each other, causing quite the spectacle for passerby. This went on for six hours until the two were so drunk as to be unable to walk without clutching each other's shoulders. They went to a priest of Grungni to attempt to arbitrate the matter, and after a further two hours explaining the situation, the priest sarcastically suggested marriage as a solution, since that way their property would be shared with each other. To his surprise, the two took his suggestion seriously, and the two were wed on the spot, thus rendering the grudge null and void. They later took out the adjoining wall and renamed the resulting establishment the Grudge-Quencher Inn. It's still standing to this way; I've been there myself, in fact. Their light summer ale is quite good."
Thorgrim smiled at that, and Rorek felt himself relax slightly. His father made him recite a few other grudges, and list the text in one particular tome backwards starting from a random page, but the first one was the most important, he sensed.
At last Thorgrim bade him cease, and stood up from the Throne. "I applaud you, my son. You've quite honestly surpassed my expectations, and those of your tutors as well," he said. "Even old Magrumm eventually caved and admitted to being impressed at your progress. I told them all not to treat you as a novice; I expected you to pick up maybe one in ten words they said. Instead you kept up with them! Your fighting skills could use some work, but you're young, you'll pick that up with time. You even managed to pick up track of what I was doing while you were holed up here, so I hear," he chuckled, eyes sparkling with mirth. "Come, I think it's time you finally see it."
"See what, father?"
"The Dammaz Kron, of course."
--
Father and son spent several hours in the chamber where the Book of Grudges was kept, reading through its blood-scripted pages, sharing quiet conversation over how quite a few of the grudges contained within had been repaid by Thorgrim. Drinks from Thorgrim's private stock were had, a few confessions were made, and apologies given. They emerged from the room with a much better appreciation of each other.
"Rorek," said Thorgrim, hand around his son's shoulder, "You've done everything I could've ever asked for and more. I'm glad you turned out the way you did."
"My thanksh, fatsher," Rorek slurred, unaccustomed to the potency of the High King's alcohol.
"In fact, you're about ready to bear the crown yourself," Thorgrim continued. "I'll transfer it over to you in a month's time. That should be enough time to prepare, am I right?"
Rorek, thinking this a joke, laughed and nodded. But as he looked at his father's face, which was entirely serious, it gradually sunk through into his mind that Thorgrim had meant what he had said. His eyes went comically wide and he gaped. "No! Faszher, I cannae take thhe throne," he slurred frantically. "Iy'm nyot reedy. And yuo're shtill h-alive."
Thorgrim shook his head. "I'm afraid it's not my choice. Come, I'll show you why it must be done." And he strode off, Rorek frantically clinging to his shoulder. He lead his son to the antechamber where they'd first seen each other and tapped a particular patch of stone five times in a peculiar rhythm. A secret passageway silently revealed itself, the stone seemingly fading away to reveal a dark passage. Thorgrim set off down it, Rorek stumbling behind.
As he walked down the hallway, Rorek could feel his drunkenness fading, disconcertingly quickly. Within a minute, the buzz had faded entirely and he could think clearly again. Without any other alternative, he continued to follow Thorgrim and soon began to percieve a white light shining from the end of the tunnel. As he walked, it grew brighter and brighter, until he had to shield his eyes. At last they reached the end of the tunnel and Rorek gasped at what he saw.
In front of him was a gargantuan slab of stone, easily fifty feet tall, with perfectly smoothed edges and not an imperfection in its makeup. Engraved in it were gargantuan runes in Khazalid that glowed with a fierce white light. Almost out of reflex, Rorek began reading them. They read as such:
IN AN AGE WHERE THE MOUNTAIN FOLK ARE A FRACTION OF WHAT THEY ONCE WERE
WHEN THE TWIN COMET FALLS TO THE SKIES AND THE FORSAKEN REALIZES HIS AMBITION BY LOSING EVERYTHING
THERE WILL COME A STORM OF SUCH STRENGTH THAT THE MOUNTAINS WILL CRUMBLE BEFORE IT AND AN END ARISES FOR THE WORLD
WITH PREPARATION, SOMETHING MAY YET BE SAVED
THE HIGH KING SHALL LEAD THE DAWI TO GRIMNIR'S SALVATION, AND MARK A GRUDGE DOWN TO BE AVENGED
With a gasp, Rorek finally managed to wrench his gaze away from the inscription. "This is why," he managed, looking at his father, who was staring solemnly back at him. "This is why you brought me here in the first place, isn't it. You needed a High King to preserve the people without breaking your own oath of avenging all the grudges in the Dammaz Kron. That's it."
Thorgrim's expression hardened. "No! What I said ... what I said in there was true," he murmured, referring to their discussion in the chamber of the Dammaz Kron. "Regardless of whether or not you were needed for the survival of our people, I would have educated you in the way I did. The time limitations pressed me, as I didn't know when the events ordained in it would occur. I had to hurry. Without them, I would have stretched it out. Let you have a life between lessons on kingship. But don't ever think I would've intentionally neglected my heir. Not only my heir, you are my son. My kin. The only reason I have spent as much time apart from you as I have was due to making preperations for this eventuality."
The two stared at each other for a long time before Rorek broke the silence. "I'm sorry. I should not be so rash in my assumptions."
"You've more than enough reason to be."
"Mayhaps, but we'll put it behind us. The Dammaz-a-Zagaz taught me that much at least," Rorek sighed. He cast his gaze to the slab once more. "When do you need me to take up the Dragon Crown?"
"As soon as it's possible for me to arrange it. A comet ascended into the heavens leaving a pillar or fire behind it not five days ago. I've already spoken to the other kings of the Karaz Ankor and showed them this; the preparations I've been making for two hundred years will come into effect when you announce the evacuation."
Rorek nodded. "I understand, father." He approached and put his hands on Thorgrim's shoulders, with a greater ease than before; he'd grown. "I will lead our people to survival, father, and drag them back into the Golden Age and beyond. Then I will return for you, and for our home. I swear it here and now."
Thorgrim nodded and the two embraced. They broke apart after a brief moment, nodded to one another, and proceeded out of the chamber.
----
Year 7045 by Dwarf Reckoning
Rorek was crowned High King of the Karaz Ankor in glory and spectacle. His first act as monarch of the Everlasting Realm was to declare a great evacuation, for the gods themselves had spoken to him in the heart of the mountain, foretelling of a great disaster that would destroy their people if they did not leave. He publicly swore that he would one day return and reclaim the dwarfen homelands from the vile depredations of whosoever dared to assault it once the survival of his species was assured.
A great many dawi chose to stay behind, to break the teeth of the forces of Old Night that would come to claim the dawi's fortresses, lead by Rorek's father, Thorgrim Grudgebearer. Amongst them was Ungrim Ironfist of Karak Kadrin, who took advantage of the precedent Thorgrim had set to declare his son Garagrim the Slayer King, and his own intention to finally fulfil his ancestor Baragor's grudge now that he was no longer shackled by the obligations of kingship. Many older dwarfs joined this force, unwilling to abandon the homes they had lived in all their lives. Just as many longbeards, however, joined the Evacuation, citing a desire to 'make certain the beardlings don't go and muck everything up'. Particularly notable amongst them was perhaps the oldest dwarf in the world, Runelord Kragg the Grim, whos expertise would be required to maintain the great runic arrays that would keep the civilian population safe in their destination.
For the Evacuation was to proceed north, up the near-mythical but well-documented path of skulls the god Grimnir had left behind him on his rampage into the Chaos Wastes. They still retained a fragment of the warrior-god's own resilience, and legend had it that Grimnir still stood at the end of the Path of Skulls, killing daemons in such quantities that their skulls formed into the road behind him. If the dawi were to survive the storm that was to come, the legends must be true. They had no other choice, for the dawi would make it so, or carve the world in half trying.
Ten days before the winds of Chaos blew into a storm the likes of which the world had never seen, the Great Evacuation set off from the Everpeak.
*beard-sworn; basically the dwarf word for the concept of battle-brothers, members of a small organization who know each other very well due to the demands of their position. Could be translated as beard-brothers.
**Grudge-Archive, called such to differentiate it from the Book of Grudges
