Part IX: The Coming of the King
Chapter 3: Challenge Not the Drokka
Timeline AO 299
Lounging in the dimly lit chamber of my fortress, I gazed intently into The Eye of Seraphiel, the pulsating orb in my hand casting eerie shadows across the stone walls. Through its mystic lens, I watched as my puppet, Hacktor Derkillez, reveled in the chaotic celebration of his coronation. His voice boomed through the great hall, echoing with a sense of power and purpose as he held aloft The Ghast, its dark metal gleaming ominously under the flickering torchlight. The crowd below, a sea of faces twisted by bloodlust and fervor, hung on his every word.
Hacktor, still perched atop the grand oak table that served as the center of the feast, gripped The Ghast with a menacing confidence. His eyes, wild with ambition, scanned the room before locking onto a warrior seated near the front – Rodrik Vendal, the oldest son of Hacktor’s friend Fredrik Vendal (Kon-Herr of Kel-de-Kaba). With a sly grin, Hacktor pointed directly at the muscular Rodrik and asked, “Are YOU ready to become a Ghastwielder?”
The hall fell silent, tension thick as the young warrior rose to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest. Hacktor, ever the showman, reached into the velvet bag beside him and slowly drew out a second battle-axe. It was an exact replica of The Ghast in appearance—an intimidating weapon of war, though devoid of the dark magic that coursed through Hacktor’s own blade. A small, crucial detail that Hacktor had no intention of revealing.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Hacktor tossed the axe to Rodrik, who caught it by the shaft just as the room erupted into raucous applause. The other warriors pounded their fists on the tables, the sound a thunderous wave of approval that filled the hall. Hacktor raised his voice above the din, his words carrying the weight of a man who had embraced his destiny. “Brothers, this is a time of change! With an army of Ghastwielders, we will no longer cower in these mountains, at the mercy of the Derk. We will march to The World Above and claim Blackwood Forest for ourselves! What say you to that?”
The response was immediate and visceral. “Death to The Derk!” the warriors chanted, their voices a rising crescendo. “We want Blackwood!” The words reverberated off the stone walls, a battle cry that promised blood and conquest.
Yet beneath the surface of this warlike fervor, unease rippled through the ranks of the Drokka elites. The clan leaders from the Rukstinz, Gaatz, and others exchanged worried glances, their minds already scheming ways to delay this sudden, reckless push for war. War was profitable, yes, but only when carefully controlled. They had no desire to be swept up in Hacktor’s fiery rhetoric without securing their own interests first. In stark contrast, foreign dignitaries and royals from allied kingdoms watched in horror, their faces pale as they quietly slipped toward the exits, eager to distance themselves from the storm they saw brewing.
Meanwhile, the merchants and guildsmen, normally so vocal, now muttered amongst themselves in hushed tones, calculating the potential costs of this war. They feared what might become of their businesses, their livelihoods, if the Drokka were to spread beyond their mountain stronghold. Among the commoners, however, the mood was starkly different. Fueled by ale and nationalistic pride, they roared their approval, eager to follow their king into glory. Gromm Stonefist, one of the few commoners present, felt a surge of pride as he joined in the chant, his voice blending with the others in a deafening chorus.
As the room roared with approval, the foreign dignitaries and Drokka elites slipped away, their exits masked by the fervor of the crowd. Even Fukbyl Gaatz and Duktyr Fowczi, usually the loudest voices in any room, had sobered at Hacktor’s declaration, slipping into the shadows to plot their next moves. Yet there was one who remained, his mind racing with schemes. Monty Redstone, the rotund and ever-cunning merchant, clapped along with the crowd, his mind feverishly calculating how to turn this unexpected turn of events to his advantage. His beady eyes gleamed with the promise of profit, and he cheered as loudly as any warrior, his fat jiggling with every clap.
Hacktor passed out two more copies of The Ghast – one to General Heraclez, and the other to a lucky fellow who’d somehow made his way to the front in spite of the fact that he was clearly from a lower class – none other than Gromm Stonefist (and yes that little maneuver took a bit of fateweaving on my part!). Gromm’s amazing good fortune quickly made him the envy of those around him, yet the lucky merchant and now would-be warrior basked in the glory of his king and shouted his thanks, “My Kon-Herr, I will follow you to The World Above and even to the ends of Mittengarten!”
At that Hacktor lifted the real Ghast high above his head, the weapon gleaming like a dark star. “We are about to make history, Brothers,” he bellowed, his voice slicing through the chaos. “This will be a time written in the Kroniklz as The War of The Ghast!” With a powerful swing, Hacktor brought the axe down through the air, its blade shrieking as it cut through the aethyr, a flash of blinding light trailing in its wake. The sound was like the scream of a dying star, filling the hall with a chilling sense of finality.
The room fell into a brief, stunned silence before Hacktor spoke again, his voice a low growl that carried a sinister edge. “But there is one more thing—perhaps the most important of all.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, savoring the tension. “I promise you, the Ragnarok will not end until Lord Garrick himself has been delivered to us! And when we find The Marduk, we will stamp our boot with vengeance into his throat!”
With that, Hacktor raised his black boot high and brought it crashing down onto the table with such force that the wood splintered beneath him. The table collapsed with a deafening crack, sending chairs and debris flying in all directions. Hecla barely had time to shield Livy as a sharp shard of wood whizzed past, drawing a startled cry from the child. Monty Redstone, caught off guard, found himself toppled to the ground, his girth making it impossible for him to right himself without assistance.
Amidst the chaos, as dust and splinters swirled through the air, Hacktor stood tall in the center of the destruction. The table lay in ruins around him, but The Ghast remained high above his head, a beacon of his unyielding power. From within the tangled maelstrom, Hacktor’s voice boomed, “Challenge not the Drokka, for Rhokii is our god!!”
The room erupted once more, the warriors pounding their chests and echoing the chant, “Challenge not the Drokka, for Rhokii is our god!!” Their voices merged into a single, thunderous roar that shook the very foundations of the hall.
Hacktor’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. It’s good to be king, he thought, his mind already racing ahead. Wait till they see what I do next…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 