Part IX: The Coming of the King
Chapter 5: To the World Above
Timeline: AO 299
A bit of fateweaving with The Eye helped ensure that Hacktor began his war in the spring of AO 299. Wanna hear how it started?
The atmosphere in Rhokki Pass was charged with an intensity that hadn’t been felt in over a generation. The echoes of past glories resounded through the ancient halls, fueling a fervor that had long been dormant among the Drokka. Hacktor Derkillez, the newly anointed Kon-Herr, was about to embark on a campaign that would define his reign and reshape the destiny of his people. This was no ordinary war—it was proclaimed by the priests as a “holy war,” a sacred crusade ordained by the gods themselves.
Unable to wait for the muster of the full army, the Kon-Herr marched out of Rhokki Pass with a small force – less than five hundred men – as he waited on the rest of the generals to build their forces and join him later. Hacktor’s force was comprised primarily of infantry but with support from various groups of archers, sappers, and supply wagons. Although long past the glory days of the prior Drokka-Derkka Death wars – where the Drokka infantry was perhaps the best on the planet — Hacktor’s ground forces were still the featured ranks of his army and Hacktor himself had trained as such a fighter under his military mentor Heraclez.
As he made his way with his troops thru the Drokka Byways, Hacktor was brimming with confidence. Armed with the magical battleaxe known as The Ghast, he could feel it’s power coursing through him and he was anxious to use it. He also carried the great dirk Brega’s Bane on his hip. And he wore a rather unique set of armor, highlighted by two important pieces. First, his hauberk was made of interlocking rings of rhokkium and black crystal – it had been passed down to him by Brega and his grandfather claimed that the armor dated all the way back to Ajax’s time – a treasure within the Busz clan reserved only for Kon-Herr’s of the family. Glittering with a thousand points of light wherever it reflected light, Hacktor’s armor was perfectly suited to its purpose – that of protecting the king and promoting his glory.
As impressive as the king’s armor was, it was overshadowed by the headgear he wore. Outside of The Ghast, Hacktor’s Helm was one of the most magnificent pieces of warcraft ever created. Forged by Hef Fastuz, the jet black helm was fashioned out of a single piece of iron and worn over a cushioned leather cap. In addition to protecting his skull, the helm featured a full face plate – with the molded image of the features of the god Rhokkii in all his fury. Gem encrusted eyeholes reflected a wicked glow, lips of raised silver were twisted into a war-like sneer, gilded eyebrows were arched in holy anger, and two jagged scars of embedded rubies were deeply etched into the ebon helm’s right cheek — all of which signified the disfigurement this warrior planned for his enemies.
And yet, as great as Hacktor’s armor and helmet were, they both paled in comparison to the scene-stealing aura of The Ghast. Soldiers couldn’t help but oohs and aahs whenever they caught of glimpse of the weapon – and this was even before they ever saw Hacktor fight with it for the very presence of the weapon oozed Awesomeness.
Remember too that the Kon-Herr’s army also carried with it three more pseudo ghasts meant to further inspire the troops. Even though the non-magical ghasts didn’t possess the powers that Hacktor’s blade did, the axes were still powerful weapons and all of them carried the mark of Fastuz upon them. The Kon-Herr had given these coveted arms out at his coronationa and they went to General Heraclez, Herr Rodrik (the son of Frederik Vendal, the Kon-Herr of Kel-de-Kaba and the Drokka who’d caught the first blade Hacktor had passed out at the party), and the envy of everyone – the peasant merchant turned warrior Gromm Stonefist (who nobody could ever explain how he even had gotten into Hacktor’s private coronation). And yet, in spite of the council of Heraclez, the Vendals, the commanders, and the obvious jealousy of the troops, Hacktor staunchly refused to take Gromm’s ghast away and give it to a military man of a higher rank – for the king believed in the fates and refused to go against them.
“What’s done is done.” Hacktor rebuffed his commanders on the matter. “The Balkeryz have willed it as they see fit and Gromm will keep his ghast.”
Outside of that minor issue, spirits were high among the men as Hacktor and his troops left the capital and continued through the Byways. Traveling minstrels sang newly composed songs along the way – glorifying the greatness of Hacktor Derkillez and his glittering Ghast – although the famous Belgrath was NOT among them and whilst the songs sung were not as good as those of the famous bard, Hacktor wouldn’t have allowed Belgrath to accompany him even if that harper was around – thankfully he was not.
Meanwhile, the Drokka’s fervor hit a fever pitch when they advanced past the ruined remains of The Siq – that broken symbol boiling the blood of the commoners in the army who were the most susceptible to nationalistic pride. That positivity continued to swell even as the men exited the Rhokki’s and entered the unknown of Overworld. The weather was good, the terrain was still familiar, and the men were excited about their upcoming victorious campaign.
However, in spite of those good vibes, there were many who feared the unknown of The World Above – their hearts heavy with both anticipation and fear. To bolster their spirits the Drokka reminded themselves that they were not just warriors but sons of the earth, bound by blood and bone to Kalypzo, their people’s name for the revered Mother Earth who also was their god Rhokki’s lost love. Ever since Their people had entered the mountains centuries ago their devotion to Kalypzo grew into a sacred bond, passed down through generations. The Kroniklz spoke of Kalypzo’s ancient protection, of how she had cradled the first Drokka in her bosom of stone, teaching them to carve their homes from her flesh and draw sustenance from her veins of ore.
For the common soldiers then, Kalypzo was more than a goddess; she was the embodiment of all they fought for – for all Rhokki had commanded them to protect—their families, their land, and their way of life. They believed that as long as they honored her, she would guide their steps and shield them from harm. This faith had sustained their ancestors through countless battles in the past and now, as Hacktor’s men marched into the unknown, they turned to her for strength.
When the army pass beyond The Siq, the men began to raise their voices in unison, singing a ancient hymn to Kalypzo, one that had echoed through the mountains for centuries. It was a song of reverence, of hope, and of the unbreakable bond between the Drokka and the earth beneath their feet. While Hacktor himself didn’t sing, General Heraclez sang as loud as anyone and even Kon-Herr Fredrik Vendal joined in the fun…
“Oh, Kalypzo, Mother, hear our call,
In your embrace, we rise and fall.
From stone and soil, our strength we draw,
In battle’s roar, your name we saw.
With iron hearts and axes keen,
We march as one, your earthbound kin.
Guide our steps, oh, sacred ground,
In your depths, our fate is found.
The mountain’s cradle, the valley’s breath,
We fear no foe, we dread no death.
For in your arms, we are made whole,
Kalypzo’s grace will shield our soul.”
The song reverberated through the valley, a powerful testament to their faith. Each step they took was a prayer, each verse a plea for Kalypzo’s blessing. As the melody filled the air, even the hardest of men felt a sense of calm wash over them, knowing that their Mother Earth watched over them and that she would continue to do so even in The World Above.
While Hacktor’s troops were gone, Mirkir, Malchior, and their Nave priests were busy back at home. It was clear that the king’s mission to ‘wipe out’ the Derkka wasn’t going to be accomplished in just one fighting season. The Kroniklz well told of Drokka-Derkka wars sometimes lasting for a decade or more. With Hacktor having only taken half a battalion, the plan was for the Naves to inspire the people to get them ready for next year’s campaign – where the King might lead thousands to war.
Mirkir had already been using his priests to frame this conflict as divine retribution and he sought to use that proclamation to recruit more men for Hacktor. Sending out his priests to all the kingdoms, Mirkir had them declared that the war against the Derkka was not just a matter of territorial conquest or settling old scores. It was a divine mandate, a war to cleanse the earth of the cursed enemies who had defiled the sacred land and mocked the gods’ glory. The holy war was a call to arms that resonated deeply with the Drokka’s sense of duty and honor. For them, fighting in this war was not just a patriotic duty but a sacred obligation. The priests promised that those who fell in battle would be welcomed into Rhokkii’s hallowed halls, their names etched in the stone of the Afterlife alongside the greatest heroes of their race.
The impact of Mirkir’s proclamation was profound and began to produce results. The commoners among the clans, which had been teetering on the brink of despair following King Baldur’s death and the subsequent economic collapse, suddenly found a renewed sense of purpose. The horrors that had followed the king’s demise, the famine, and the plague that had devastated their lands, were now framed as divine tests, trials that would lead to greater glory. Under the guidance of the priests, the conscription efforts intensified.
Generals and clan leaders, emboldened by the priest’s words, swept through the villages and hamlets, gathering men throughout the spring and summer of AO 299. These were the Drokka who had once abandoned their homes in the face of despair. These men were told that their suffering had been part of the gods’ plan, a necessary purging before the final victory. The promise of redemption, both personal and for their race, was irresistible. Mirkir himself, along with Malchior, traveled among the people, preaching the sacred nature of the war and invoking the wrath of the gods upon any who dared to refuse the call. Their fiery sermons rekindled the Drokka spirit, transforming fear into fanaticism.
With the blessing of the priests and the threat of divine wrath hanging over them, the Drokka were galvanized into action. The young and the old alike, from the most beefiest Drokka to the lowliest weak peasants, flocked to the army’s banners. Those who had once hidden in the shadows of their ruined homes now marched in lockstep, driven by a newfound zeal. The generals, many of whom had served in Baldur’s time, were able to muster a force that, while not as large or as experienced as the armies of old, was brimming with fervor and determination and they began to gather at Rhokki Pass and train – preparing themselves for the campaign of AO 300 when the King was sure to lead out his men again.
But the fighting of AO 300 was still a long way off and Hacktor even had a battle in AO 299 yet! Worse yet – things had already become problematic for the king’s men after just a few days in The World Above. That’s when reality set in — for the mountain-bound Drokka men were not used to living outside and more than a few men began to suffer the effects of agoraphobia. Sunny days outside were particularly hard for the men who struggled to protect their eyes from the bright light that threatened to drive them crazy. During the first few days, a handful of men deserted in their desperation to return back to their caves.
There were even whispers that it might be The Deepening Dread – but Hacktor made sure those rumors were quickly quashed. And yet, in his private moments Hacktor also began to feel the inexplicable fears associated with wipe open spaces, but the determined king held his nerves in check with an iron fist and expected the same from his men. Meanwhile the matter of the men running off was addressed in the king’s tent one evening between Hacktor, his mentor General Heraclez, and the seasoned Kon-Herr of Kel-de-Kaba Fredrick Vendal.
“The men lack discipline.” The grizzled Vendal noted. “But we can use this to our advantage. It will weed out the weaklings.”
“There’s no place for lesser men in my ranks.” Hacktor agreed.
“What do we do about the deserters? The crime has always been punishable by death in the past.”
“Let it be as you say,” Hacktor waved a hand. “Find them, bring them to me, and we’ll let the troops see what happens to them – I think they’ll change their tune soon enough.”
Honing his ghast with a whetstone, General Heraclez cautioned, “I agree with you on the desertion issue, but let’s not forget, this army is made up of mostly young men and we’re going to need their numbers to wage this campaign. Discipline, yes, but how about some distractions too?”
“We’ve given them the minstrels.” Hacktor grumbled. “Isn’t that enough?
“Song is only part of the equation.” The Kel-de-Kaba lord frowned. “What the general is recommending is the rest.”
“The troops need their wine and women too.” Heraclez smiled, perhaps eager to experience these things for himself. “I know the wagons have gozalka – what say we crack open a few barrels?”
“Absolutely not.” Hacktor arose, now intent on ending the council. “The gozalka is only to be pegged if we accomplish something of significance and at the rate we’re going that may never happen! Wine, women, and song leads to a poor excuse for an army. I offer them the chance for fortune and glory, if that isn’t enough then let them all leave. I’ll win this war myself if I have to!”
Within a couple days five of the seven deserters were captured, convicted, and hung – their bodies left to dangle on trees that the army marched by. Whether this caused the rest of the men to overcome their fears of the outside world or if perhaps the troops’ psyches started to adjust is debatable; either way, Hacktor got what he wanted – no one else dared run off.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the end of the army’s problems. After reaching the Drokka’s border, the lands became unfamiliar and the weather changed. The spirit of the troops crumbled once more – causing Hacktor to become further agitated.
Trudging along at the front of the ranks, the Kon-Herr complained, “Why is this army so damn slow? It’ll be winter again before we ever reach The Blackwoods at this pace.”
“We’re cave dwellers, my lord.” Fredrik wiped the sweat from his brow. “Sorry to say it but generations living below ground has made us short and slow. And these heavy weapons don’t make our packs any lighter.”
“Perhaps next year we outfit the troops with ponies?”
Fredrik laughed at what he assumed as a joke, but when General Heraclez realized the king was serious the saavy vet cautioned, “Would even such as you have the courage to ride such a beast? Perhaps only you, my lord. But surely you realize that is impossible! We Drokka are part of the earth, we prefer our feet on the ground. Have you ever seen a Drokka ride a pony in your entire life? We’ve lost that skill.”
“That’s your ‘centuries below ground’ theory, eh?” Hacktor rebutted. “Well I don’t agree. Perhaps our people have adapted to not riding ponies, perhaps we prefer to walk, but forget not that the wealthy travel in vehicles pulled by wolves and ponies along The Byways. The wagons that follow this army are being pulled by ponies. You might view them as a pack animal but they could also carry men too. It’s a matter of courage. And access. I mean to give it them both.”
“I wish you luck, lord.” Heraclez’ eyes were wide, looking to drop out of this uncomfortable conversation.
Yet Hacktor was still thinking. “Why not vehicles for war too? I recall reading of them in older editions of The Kroniklz.”
“Chariots.” Fredrick explained. “We’ve never developed them because we didn’t need them. They are like small wagons someone can fight from.”
“Arg, the wagons.” The king sighed. “Don’t remind me. The train that follows us slows us even more. I’d prefer to leave them behind and forge ahead.”
Heraclez gave a nervous laugh. “The army needs support, lord. The wagons provide our cooks, craftsmen, and slaves – they feed us, carry our equipment, and set up our camp.”
“You mean so the men don’t have to bother themselves with these nuisances? That caravan stretches farther than I can see.”
“Let me worry about the train, my lord. You focus on the battle plans – I know that’s what you enjoy the most.”
The king took the bait – launching into a detailed explanation of the line formations he’d planned for their first battle. It was a conversation that lasted for the rest of that day’s march – much to the chagrin of the generals who rode beside him.
Eventually, after a laborious journey of nearly three weeks, Hacktor’s advance scouts returned with reports of a small Derkka settlements scattered the borderlands as well as numerous encampments in The Blackwoods. The news was the perfect antidote to the doldrums the troops had fallen into and Hacktor was thrilled to see his men filled with a desire for war – eager to earn their stripes.
Having long studied the famous battles detailed in The Kroniklz, Hacktor knew his military history and was eager to try his hand commanding his army against enemy forces such as he’d read about. The Kon-Herr was expecting that he’d be leading his men into battle in organized lines against a foe who fought in the same manner and couldn’t wait for the fighting to begin!
Although his force was small, Hacktor looked upon his men as the embodiment of divine will, a hammer of the gods poised to strike down those who had defied their sacred mandate. The king’s confidence grew with each step closer to battle, knowing that he wielded not only the power of his weapons but also the might of the gods themselves. The stage was set for a confrontation that would echo through the annals of history, a war fueled by faith, ambition, and the unyielding determination of a people who believed they were destined to reclaim their lost glory…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 