Part IX: The Coming of the King
Chapter 2: King under the Mountains
Timeline: AO 299
The bard Belgrath’s surprise appearance at Hacktor Derkillez’s coronation was enough to keep me engrossed watching the Eye all night long – with a glass of blood-wine and a few souls to snack on, I was good for hours. I couldn’t resist tapping into Hacktor’s thoughts – allow me to share them with you.
And then, the day came—a new king was crowned: Hacktor Derkillez, Kon-Herr Drokka Under the Mountains!
The Hall of the Double Axes, that vast, echoing throne room deep within the Drokka stronghold at Rhokii Pass, was filled to bursting with supporters. Earlier musicians and artists had performed while the feast was being set up – with the famous bard Belgrath among them – something Hacktor neither wanted nor appreciated.
The undercurrent of tension between Belgrath, Hecla, and Hacktor had only added a complex layer to the evening. As the feast wore on, Belgrath played more songs and while Hacktor had since learned that it was Monty Redstone who’d orchestrated the bard’s return – the new king also new that the past was not so easily forgotten. Whispers of what was and what might have been lingered in the notes of the bard’s songs, in the glances exchanged across the room, in the very air they all breathed.
The feast that followed was lavish, with tables groaning under the weight of food and drink, and the palace filled with laughter and music. Yet even as the festivities continued, a tension hung in the air, a reminder of the unsaid words and unresolved emotions that simmered beneath the surface.
Belgrath played and sang throughout the night, his voice as enchanting as ever, but it was clear to the new king that the singer’s thoughts were elsewhere. He’s watching Hecla, Hacktor simmered, noting the way his sister avoided the bard’s gaze. And yet there’s something there, I can feel it.
Hacktor kept a close eye on the bard, his jealousy simmering just below the surface. He did not trust Belgrath, nor the hold he seemed to have over Hecla, even if that hold was now nothing more than a memory. And though he knew that Hecla was committed to her role as the future queen, the thought of Belgrath’s influence gnawed at him, a thorn in his side that he could not remove.
Yet eventually Belgrath’s turn at the song ended and others took the stage. As the feast wore on, the air was thick with the sounds of celebration—cheers, laughter, the clinking of goblets—but for all the revelry, King Hacktor was still far from content. As he surveyed the scene, a sneer tugged at the corners of his mouth, his mind boiling with disdain.
I don’t need Belgrath or any of this pompous charade to legitimize my rule. The thought was now as bitter as the mushroom ale in his goblet. He cast a cold eye over the countless tables, groaning under the weight of feasts fit for royalty, where nobles from all eight kingdoms and beyond sat feasting and fawning. The air was oppressive, laden with the sickly-sweet scent of overripe fruit and spilled mead, mingling with the sweat of so many bodies crammed into the hall. It made Hacktor’s stomach churn.
They’re here for what they can get from me, he thought, barely masking his contempt behind a forced smile. Every single one of them is expecting a handout. He took a long, deliberate draught from his gem-encrusted goblet, the ale doing little to wash away the taste of disgust on his tongue as he looked out over the sea of faces, many still reeling from the unexpected death of Baldur, the previous king and Hacktor’s father. They don’t know what to expect from me—good. Let them wonder. They’ll soon see I am nothing like my father.
For the first time in seven decades, Kon-Herr Baldur was not seated at the head of the king’s table. Yet that wasn’t the only change – Bran and the rest of Baldur’s children were gone too – only Hacktor, Hecla, and Livy remained from the Derkillez line. Although the siblings of the royal twins all died by mysterious circumstances, the new king did not mourn his lost brethren nor ponder much on their manner of death. Bran was naught but a lackey – he’d have made the perfect pawn for someone else’s power play. I’m glad he’s gone, along with the rest.
For a moment the boy Arkan flashed through the king’s mind. Hacktor had always assumed the child was his, never knowing Baldur was the real father, thus a pang of guilt gripped Hacktor’s heart that he wasn’t present to help Arkan on the day of his still mysterious death. Growing sullen, Hacktor took another long pull of his drink. No matter how far a man travels, regret and remembrance follow after him. Like dogs they chase me, howling at night and haunting my dreams.
Hacktor grunted for a servant to refill his cup, forcing his thoughts to turn elsewhere. Looking at Hecla who was seated at his right, he was immediately captivated by the confident gaze she returned to him. Ah, my dear sister, you are enjoying my coronation party more than anyone else in the room – for surely you’ve gotten all you wanted and more as a result of father’s death. I’ll make you my queen yet. And letting his gaze trail down to his sister’s bosom Hacktor’s thought’s wandered. And forget about Belgrath, for I’ll ravish you again tonight better than any weakling bard ever could.
To his left sat the elites of the Drokka clans, the ancient Klywz Der Nave with his son Malchior, Lord Thane Rukstinz and his son Aric, Chaney Busz, and a host of others from the Klyntz, Bomas, and Kyndyz all with their respective wives. They were a grim lot, faces carved from stone, their expressions revealing nothing of what they truly thought of their new king. But Hacktor noted Monty Redstone, the Coinmaster General, pale and trembling. Let him tremble, Hacktor thought with satisfaction. Let him wonder if I’ll be as easily manipulated as my father was. He’ll learn soon enough.
His gaze shifted to the right, where Mirkir the Wyze and General Heraclez sat, both in high spirits. They’re pleased to see their carefully groomed candidate on the throne. They think they can still control me, but they’re in for a surprise.
Amid the throng of guests, there were two figures that caught Hacktor’s eye—Fukbyl Gaatz and Duktyr Fowczi. The two conspirators had been strategically placed near the center of the king’s table, a position they had not expected but one they quickly took as a mark of favor. Already deep in their cups, they were boisterous, drunk on both ale and their own delusions. Let them believe they’ve won my favor, Hacktor thought with a predatory smile. They’ll need their liquid courage when they see what I have in store for them.
As the night wore on, the feast grew wilder. Mirkir offered multiple blessings, the Drokka knelt in reverence to their new king, and false friends from across TerrVerde raised their goblets in Hacktor’s honor. But to Hacktor, it was all a charade. They play their parts well, but I see through them all.
The new Kon-Herr Drokka allowed the celebration to continue for as long as his patience would allow but eventually excitement got the better of him – for Hacktor had a surprise to unleash on his guests and it was so massive that he knew word would surely get back to his rival Garrick, The Golden Hand, Marduk of the Derk. Garrick will eat his heart out in jealous fear – knowing that I will soon be coming for him.
Finally, unable to contain his excitement, Hacktor could wait no longer. He rose from his seat, his powerful frame casting a long shadow over the hall, and climbed atop the massive oak table at the center of the dais, hauling up a big velvet bag with him. Livy giggled in delight whilst the rest of the crowd gasped at the unexpected sight. Although such displays of revery were common among the Drokka, the dignitaries from outside the realm had never seen a high king act in such a way and the faces of the Drokka elites were a mix of disgust and embarrassment. Yet the main crowd which was a mix of middle class merchants, members of the king’s guard, and other well-to-do commoners from the Drokka clans were delighted at the sight of such a confident Kon-Herr – these loose with wild applause to cheer on their new leader. From within a velvet bag, he drew forth a bejeweled battle-axe, its blade catching the light and scattering it in dazzling rays across the room.
“My brothers!” Hacktor’s voice boomed, silencing the murmurs that had begun to rise. “I have been to The Well of Wyzdom. The Ragnarok is at hand—we shall soon wipe clean the accursed Derk from Mittengarten!”
The crowd froze, stunned into silence. The heads of the ancient families exchanged uneasy glances, while the dignitaries from beyond the mountains whispered among themselves, trying to decipher this unexpected proclamation. The rest of the crowd could only stare, their faces pale with fear. The Ragnarok? they whispered. The time of the Last Battle? Could it be true?
Hacktor let the tension build, savoring the moment. Then, with a thunderous command, he shouted, “SILENCE!”
The hall fell into a deathly stillness. All eyes were on Hacktor now, and he knew it. He stood there, a towering figure of strength and power, dressed in black crystal mail that gleamed with a menacing luster, a royal blue cape hanging at his back – believe me when I say that Hacktor Derkillez surely looked the part of mythical warrior! Yet it was the battle-axe in his hand that truly held the crowd’s attention.
Hacktor raised the weapon high, the iron haft glinting with gold-plated engravings, Drokka runes etched deep into the metal—a tribute to the legendary heroes Ajax and Volzung. The blade itself, forged from carbonized diamonds, was a marvel of craftsmanship, its edge so sharp it seemed to cut the very air. The reverse side of the axe was flared into two wickedly curved barbs, each as deadly as the main blade. One look at this weapon would be enough to let anyone know that its bearer meant business. Yet if the blade’s appearance alone wasn’t enough to scare off his enemies, then Hacktor had something else to turn the tide of war in his favor – for the axe had been infused with the divine gifts of Limitless Endurance and Unmatched Power. As a result, Hacktor Derkillez was now armed with the most powerful weapon the world had ever seen!
“Oohs” and “Aahs” came from countless warriors in the crowd – all louder than the applause that even Belgrath had garnered. Then it was that Hacktor explained, “This battle-axe will be the key to our victory over The Derk – for each of you shall be armed with one just like it, and once equipped, there will be no way The Derk can stand up to you on the battlefield!”
The crowds cheered at this news and someone called out, “My Lord, what do you name this awesome blade?”
Hacktor smiled wide, “It shall be called The Ghast! And with this blade we shall change the world forever!”
The hall shook with the sound of the crowd’s approval, but Hacktor’s mind was already racing ahead, imagining the terror this announcement would sow in the hearts of his enemies. Still standing atop the table, his gaze swept over the gathered throng of warriors, merchants, and priests. His eyes gleamed with a dangerous light as he roared, “Let the Ragnarok begin!”
The hall exploded with the sound of pounding fists, the stomping of feet, and the wild cries of men drunk on bloodlust.
In that moment, Hacktor felt invincible, the blood of a thousand ancestors coursing through his veins, urging him on to greater and greater deeds. And yet, somewhere deep within him, a small voice whispered a warning, a voice he chose to ignore as he reveled in his newfound power. The Ragnarok is at hand, the voice had said, but it may not be the victory you seek.
But Hacktor, like so many before him, had no time for warnings. He was a king, a warrior, a god among men. And with The Ghast in his hand, he would carve his name into the annals of history—no matter the cost.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 