Part IX: The Coming of the King
Chapter 4: The March Begins…
Timeline AO 299
And so it was that I ensured my pawn Hacktor was primed and ready for war. Yet the question lingered: would his people be ready to follow? The Drokka had grown complacent under Baldur’s peaceful rule, untested by the fires of battle. Stirring them into action would require more than mere proclamations and celebrations. They needed a leader with an indomitable spirit, someone who could mold their destinies and ignite a fire within their hearts. That leader was Hacktor Derkillez, a man I had meticulously groomed for one purpose—to wage a war unlike any the world had ever seen.
Before we delve further into this tale—one that won’t end well for Hacktor—let me remind you that while I may have nudged him in the right direction, the choices he made were his own. Like you, Hacktor possessed Free Will. The decision to make war, and the devastating consequences for his people, rest squarely on his shoulders, not mine. But don’t think for a moment that my path was without its own challenges.
Besides having the specter of Dagaal still hanging over my head, one of my most significant oversights involved The Grim, a magical blade that was supposed to be my ace in the hole. Hacktor was meant to wield it, to turn it into a weapon of unparalleled destruction. Instead, he gifted it away, sending it to a distant land where it was forgotten—even by me. That little slip would come back to haunt me, though it paled in comparison to the storm that was about to break over Hacktor’s head.
Following his coronation, Hacktor wasted no time in turning his attention to the task at hand. He gathered his generals and began preparations for an ambitious campaign into The Overworld. However, the path to war was not a straightforward one. Hecla, ever the wise counselor, urged him to listen to the advice of those who had their fingers on the kingdom’s pulse. At her insistence, and with the calculated pressure from Monty Redstone, the Coinmaster, and even following the guidance of his mentor Mirkir, Hacktor begrudgingly accepted audiences with Lord Aric, Chaney Busz, and the other political vipers that infested the kingdom’s court. These were the swamp creatures of the realm, men who thrived on intrigue and manipulation. Hacktor despised every minute of it, but with Hecla’s guiding hand behind the scenes, he endured their company.
When Hacktor finally returned to his generals to get back to their military planning, his commanders brought disheartening news. Whether due to the elite’s covert machinations or the harsh reality of logistics, the Herr’s informed the new king that it would take several weeks to muster the full might of the Drokka army. This delay was unacceptable to Hacktor. Impatient and brimming with martial fervor, he resolved to act immediately.
It was then that Mirkir, the High Priest of the Drokka, stepped into the fray, seizing the moment to turn the impending conflict into something far greater. He stood before the people in the grand hall of the Great Forge, his voice echoing through the ancient stone walls, proclaiming Hacktor’s campaign not merely as a war—but as a holy war. Mirkir invoked the names of Rhokki, the god of the forge, and the old gods of the mountains, declaring that this was the will of the divine, a sacred duty for all Drokka. The Overworld, he proclaimed, had been corrupted by the cursed Derkka and their blasphemous worship of Baal. It was now the Drokka’s destiny to cleanse the world of this taint, to reclaim their rightful place as the chosen people. This war, Mirkir insisted, was the will of the gods, and those who fought in it would be blessed for eternity.
Mirkir’s fiery proclamation stirred something deep within the Drokka, awakening a fervor that had long lain dormant. The war was no longer just Hacktor’s ambition; it was a divine mission, a crusade that transcended mortal concerns. To fight in this holy war was to fight for the very soul of their people, and Mirkir’s words spread like wildfire through the kingdom, inspiring a sense of purpose and unity among the Drokka that had not been seen in generations.
With Mirkir’s proclamation echoing in their ears, the generals set about the daunting task of conscripting an army from a population that had been shattered by the horrors that followed King Baldur’s death. The once-thriving economy had crumbled, and many Drokka had abandoned their homes, fleeing to remote mountain villages or descending into the deep mines in a desperate bid to survive. The challenge was immense—how to muster an army from a people scattered and broken?
The solution lay in a combination of force and fervor. Mirkir’s declaration of a holy war became the rallying cry, with priests traveling to every corner of the kingdom, preaching the divine mandate. They promised the blessings of Rhokki and the old gods, not just for the warriors but for their families as well. Those who fought in the holy war would be honored, their families protected and provided for by the temple’s wealth. The gods, Mirkir and his priests assured them, would see to it that the sacrifices made now would be repaid tenfold in the afterlife.
But inspiration alone was not enough. The generals also resorted to more coercive means, rounding up able-bodied men from the mountain villages and mining towns, offering them a stark choice—fight for their people or face the wrath of the gods. Those who hesitated were branded cowards, shamed before their communities, and many joined out of fear of dishonor as much as devotion.
Meanwhile, Hacktor took care of another issue that had been on his mind. General Heraclez, at the king’s command, led the Secret Servant Guards in an overnight raid that saw Fukbyl Gaatz and Duktyr Fowczi dragged from their opulent caverns and thrown into the dark, dank dungeons of Kon-Herr at Rhokki Pass. Their crimes against their own people—manipulating the masses with Quvidiz herbs and concocting a fake climate scheme—would be met with the full weight of Hacktor’s justice. [It’s a shame your world’s leaders didn’t take similar action when faced with their own plamdemic crises.]
With those traitors dealt with, Hacktor turned his focus back to his true passion—war. He gathered a small, eager force of conscripts – about five hundred strong. Among them was the fervent Gromm Stonefist, who was lucky enough to receive one of the Ghasts from Hacktor and now thirsted for Derkka blood and the chance to honor his family’s name. Leaving his wife and family behind to tend to their business, Gromm marched with Hacktor’s forces. Meanwhile, the King expected the rest of the generals would join them in The World Above as they completed their own mobilizations.
Before leaving, Hacktor made a solemn promise to Hecla: they would marry upon his return. He left her in charge of the court, trusting her to manage the kingdom’s affairs and prepare for their nuptials while he, his men, and The Ghast marched into the unknown…to The World Above.
Meanwhile, as Hacktor and his force ventured out, Monty Redstone and the kingdom’s elites watched with thinly veiled relief. Though they publicly supported their new king, behind closed doors, they worked tirelessly to undermine him. They conspired to free Fukbyl and Duktyr, ensuring that the war would continue to line their pockets. And if Hacktor were to die a hero’s death in a distant land, so much the better…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 