Part XI: The Heart of Darkness
Chapter 3: It Comes Without Meaning
Timeline: AO 300
When I checked in on Hacktor again, I was pleased to see that he was still on his way back home. Having glimpsed the fate that awaited him, I knew he wouldn’t be happy…
As the Kon-Herr journeyed back to court, his heart brimmed with a mixture of pride and anticipation. He longed to hear praise for his recent accomplishments and vowed to ensure the scribes embellished his deeds as much as possible for The Kroniklz. He also yearned to meet his new child, convinced that the gods had blessed him with another son.
When he and his men reached the midpoint of The Byways, a messenger awaited him—a courier sent by Monty Redstone with urgent instructions to catch the king before he arrived at the palace. Expecting joyful news about the birth of his child, Hacktor ordered a respite for the troops and received the newcomer with a hopeful heart. But one look at the Drokka’s face told him otherwise.
“My L-l-lord,” the man stammered, his voice quivering like the leaves in a winter storm. “The queen…the child…it w-”
“Tell me about my son!” Hacktor’s voice boomed as he seized the messenger by the collar, shaking him with a mixture of impatience and fear.
“It was a girl!” The man’s eyes were wide with terror as he fell to his knees before the king.
Hacktor released his grip and let out a short, bitter laugh. “That’s why you’re trembling? You feared I would be mad that my queen gave me another daughter? Relax. Let’s celebrate this go—”
He stopped abruptly as he noticed the messenger’s body trembling uncontrollably. Eyes narrowing, Hacktor barked an order to the warriors standing nearby, “Raise this fool to his feet. We’ll make him talk one way or another.”
As the guards hauled the trembling man upright, the messenger vomited a flood of words, “She’s dead! Your child…she never awoke after the womb. The queen is in hiding. Monty Redstone is managing your affairs. He says—”
Hacktor’s rage swelled with every word, boiling inside him like a volcano on the brink of eruption. Unable to contain his fury any longer, he unleashed a savage punch straight to the poor courier’s face. The force of the blow, magnified by the rhokkium gauntlet encasing his fist, was monstrous. The man’s face shattered under the impact, his body crumpling like a lifeless rag doll. When the guards let him fall, none were surprised to see that the messenger was dead.
Already on the move, Hacktor ignored the bloody scene behind him, urging a small group of guards to quicken their pace toward the palace. Each step was a hammer blow to his heart, his thoughts a storm of grief, rage, and dread.
When he reached the palace, Hacktor found the queen alone in their bed, but the sight that met his eyes was far from the joyous reunion he had imagined.
The transformation in his once radiant wife was beyond horrific. Hecla’s face, once full of life, now bore the unspeakable marks of sorrow. Her hair was disheveled, her robes torn and stained with tears, and the room around her was in disarray—furniture toppled, mirrors shattered, and walls scarred as if by an unseen battle.
Hacktor approached her with tentative steps, trying to comfort his queen, but Hecla was beyond solace. At the sight of her husband, she broke down completely, her body wracked with sobs so intense that they stole her breath. The mighty king, who had conquered countless enemies on the battlefield, now stood helpless before the overwhelming grief of the woman he loved. He tried to lend her his strength, to share the burden of her sorrow, but Hecla’s spirit was too shattered to accept it. With a final, anguished cry, she collapsed into his arms, unconscious.
I barely recognize her. How long has she been like this? Hacktor’s thoughts raced as he looked at the fragile, broken woman in his arms. Fear gnawed at him—fear that Hecla might harm herself in her grief. In desperation, he called for the herb master, demanding that the man administer a sleeping potion to his wife.
The medic, who had been awaiting this very request, complied without hesitation. Yet little did Hacktor know that the herb master was under the influence of Duktyr Fowczi, the mysterious and vengeful herbalist whom Hacktor had imprisoned for his role in the Fukbyl Gaatz Quvid scam. The herbs Duktyr’s pawn prepared for Hecla were laced with subtle malevolence – each dose was a slow poison, designed not to kill but to weaken—an insidious tool of revenge against the king who had wronged him.
In the days that followed, the palace was shrouded in a heavy, oppressive silence. Every time Hacktor tried to engage Hecla in conversation, his words faltered as he saw the unrelenting pain etched on her face. The silence that ensued was suffocating, leaving them both desperate to avoid each other.
Hacktor’s discomfort around his wife grew with each passing day. It was as if an unspoken agreement had formed between them—a pact to speak only of trivial matters, meaningless things that allowed them to hide from the true depth of their sorrow. Hacktor despised this feeling, the emptiness it left in his heart, and he knew that Hecla felt the same. But for a time, this was their fate.
As the king and queen mourned, their grief cast a shadow over the entire kingdom. The common people of the Rhokki Mountains shared in their sorrow, for they loved their king and queen, even if the monarchs cared little for their serfs. The winter of AO 300 dragged on, a bleak and joyless season beneath the mountains.
Yet, even in this dark time, there were those who thrived. With Hacktor and the queen consumed by her depression, Monty Redstone and the ravenous elites seized the opportunity to further their own designs.
Lord Aric, with his ever-ambitious eye, made land grabs in scores of locations throughout the mountains, expanding his clan’s already vast holdings. He brokered alliances, arranged marriages, and solidified his power base with cold, calculating precision. The Klyntz, too, were brought into the fold, their southern kingdom of Duzarez aligning with the Rukstinz through a strategic marriage. The Bomas, not to be outdone, sent a girl they claimed was their daughter—though in truth she was no blood relative for Byryk and his ‘wife’ Mykk were both men —off to the distant Akka Mountain kingdom to marry a prince there, further expanding their influence.
Meanwhile, the cabal of power-hungry elites continued to siphon wealth from the kingdom’s coffers, turning Hacktor’s war into a veritable gold mine. Kel-de-Kaba churned out weapons, the Rukstinz supplied the capital, and the Coinmaster siphoned off royal funds with barely a whisper of dissent.
Rumors also swirled that Fukbyl Gaatz had traveled to Mersia and back, sealing trade agreements that made his family richer than ever. Although still in hiding, it was said that Fukbyl was quietly advancing his Agenda 330, a plan that still included Duktyr Fowczi’s deadly herbs and was now aimed at wresting control from the Derkillez. The cabal, wary of Hacktor’s unpredictable nature, chose not to interfere with Fukbyl’s schemes, allowing him to pursue his designs unchallenged.
As the king languished beside his grieving queen, Monty Redstone maintained the appearance of loyalty, making himself readily available and overflowing with platitudes of allegiance. Whilst Hacktor’s mind was on the death of his unborn daughter Monty took advantage — after many attempts to get a meeting with the king, the Coinmaster was finally able to get Hacktor’s approval for a secret project Monty claimed was absolutely necessary to ensure that Kon-Herr would have all the money he needed to finance his on-going military operations. Specifically Monty got the king’s approval to allow the Coinmaster to decrease the purity of both the Drokkma and the Drokkette (the official coins of the realm).
[Ever since their adoption as the official (and only) Coins of the Realm by the great Kon-Herr Drokka Volzung more than a century ago, the Drokkma and the Drokkette were always 1 gram of gold and 5 grams of silver respectively. Drokka Coinmasters historically viciously protected both their coins’ appearance and purity and this quality control made the Drokkma and the Drokkette the currency of choice on the continent of TerrVerde, preferred the ‘world over’ by traders everywhere].
Monty’s project was designed to overcome the challenges that arose due to Hacktor’s war spending that was draining the royal coffers faster than the taxes on the Drokka merchants’ now limited trade returns were filling them. The savvy Coinmaster would have liked to have minted more silver and gold coins to finance Hacktor’s spending, however with so many of the Drokka men fighting Hacktor’s wars, there were less and less men working the gold and silver mines and therefore it was becoming increasingly difficult for Monty’s mint operations to acquire enough of the precious metals to make new coins.
Monty’s solution to this problem was to both unique and (seemingly) ingenious. To wit: Monty’s mint produced coins that looked like real Drokkma and Drokkettes but were in fact made with a more readily available metal (copper) and less of the precious ones.
[Monty called his plan Drokkma Easing, but you’ll probably recognize it as your modern day Quantitative Easing. In fact, Monty Redstone was the first human in your history to invent the concept. While a dissertation on the concept of Drokkma Easing is obviously beyond the scope of our discussion, the takeaway is that Monty’s plan allowed the Coinmaster to keep King Hacktor happy by making sure the Kon-Herr had the capital required for his wars. A side benefit this project is that it allowed Monty Redstone and the secret cabal he served to become fabulously wealthy].
Oh it’s true that there were going to be some unintended consequences of all this ‘new’ money and that neither Monty, nor Hacktor, nor the Drokka people were prepared for these perils, but as those were future consequences, nobody cared about the risks at the time. Monty kept the money flowing for everyone and that’s all that mattered.
Additionally, (and far more important from Hacktor’s point of view) Monty’s guilds had continued to produce pseudo-ghasts for the king’s army. By now nearly three thousand ghasts – meaning the Kon-Herr’s forces were armed to the teeth with fearsome looking blades and that made the king happy.
And so, because Hacktor had no patience for political or financial games, and because he spent most of the winter sequestered with Hecla, Monty was free to run the kingdom as its steward. This allowed the massive transfer of wealth to continue unabated, filling the purses of the Coinmaster and his cronies.
During this time, Hacktor found solace only in brief moments with Livy, his daughter, who had been affected deeply by her mother’s tragedy. The once vibrant child had grown quiet and withdrawn, her laughter replaced by a solemn silence that tore at Hacktor’s heart. He tried to comfort her, holding her close and whispering stories of brave warriors and faraway lands, but even his tales could not fully erase the shadow that had fallen over their lives. He saw in Livy’s eyes a reflection of Hecla’s sorrow, and it pained him to know that his daughter’s spirit had been wounded by a tragedy she could scarcely understand.
Eventually, Hacktor left his wife and daughter to make a brief visit to the Well of Wisdom, hoping to find guidance from the Spirit once more. Before going to the Well, the Kon-Herr paid his respects to his mentor Mirkir.
Hacktor found Mirkir in his study, surrounded by ancient scrolls and the soft glow of smoldering incense. The air was thick with the scent of herbs, mingling with the ever-present smell of old parchment. Mirkir looked up as Hacktor entered, his eyes sharp and knowing beneath his heavy brow.
“Kon-Herr,” Mirkir greeted, his voice a steady rumble. “You seek guidance.”
Hacktor hesitated for a moment, his gaze falling to the floor as if the weight of his sorrow threatened to drag him into the stone beneath his feet. “I have lost another child, Mirkir,” he began, his voice rough, almost breaking. “And with her, it feels as if I have lost all purpose. How do I forge a legacy when the gods mock me at every turn?”
Mirkir’s gaze hardened, and he moved closer to Hacktor, his small presence somehow larger, more imposing in the confined space. “A Drokka may have a hundred children and live many years; yet no matter how long he lives, if he cannot enjoy his prosperity and forge his legacy, then I say that a stillborn child is better off than he,” Mirkir said, his voice carrying the weight of ancient wisdom.
Hacktor’s breath caught in his throat as he listened, the words cutting deeper than any blade.
“It comes without meaning,” Mirkir continued, his tone unyielding, “it departs in darkness, and in darkness its name is shrouded. Though it never saw the heart of the mountain or knew anything, it has more rest than does that Drokka. Hacktor, even if you live a thousand years twice over but fail to find your destiny, what will it all matter? You too will join your dead daughter in the same place.”
Hacktor stared at the priest, his fists clenching as the words sank in. They were harsh, brutal even, but there was truth in them. A truth he had been too proud to acknowledge. The king’s rage simmered, not at Mirkir, but at himself, at the futility of his anger and the emptiness that gnawed at his heart.
“What must I do, Mirkir?” Hacktor finally asked, his voice a mere whisper.
Mirkir placed a heavy hand on the king’s shoulder, his expression grave. “You must embrace your destiny, Kon-Herr. There is still a fire within you, one that can forge a legacy far greater than any before you. But you must seek it out, in the place where legends are born. Go to the Well, and there you may find the answers you seek. But know this: only you can walk this path. No god, no man, can do it for you.”
Hacktor nodded slowly, the fire in his eyes rekindling. He felt the stirrings of purpose returning, a flicker of hope that had been nearly extinguished by grief. With a final nod to Mirkir, he turned and left the study, his steps resolute as he prepared for the journey ahead. The Well of Wyzdom awaited, and with it, perhaps the redemption he so desperately sought.
I was all too happy to interact with Hacktor as the Spirit of The Well and in the cold depths of that misty pool, Hacktor poured out his troubles to me, his voice tinged with desperation as he listed his grievances: the endless travel, the difficulty of holding newly conquered territories, the inadequacy of his men who relied more on numbers and superior equipment than skill. He feared what might happen in a pitched battle against the Marduk’s real army, cursed the distance to Babel, and doubted whether his war would even be remembered if he didn’t achieve something truly significant.
“Fame awaits you in Oz.” I whispered to him from the mists.
“Ajax’s original kingdom.” Hacktor’s eyes went wide. “No Drokka has set foot there since our people lost it two and a half centuries ago.”
“Taking it back will be the start of your legend.”
“Oz is in Kra, a hundred leagues away or more, it’s even farther north than Babel. It would take a full season to even get there.”
“I never said your war would be easy. You’ll figure it out. And while we’re on the subject of war, you need to be more ruthless than just cutting off the hands of the Derkka peasants. The Babelonians don’t fear you because you are still too tame. Embrace the evils of war and stop restraining yourself!”
“What would you have me do?”
“I have a few ideas…”
Renewed of spirit and with a goal to works towards Hacktor returned to the palace – only to find that Hecla’s condition had worsened. Though she could speak, her words were filled with melancholy, and she often stared at her husband with a distant, unfocused gaze. She spoke of visions, of being visited by dark spirits and shadowy figures who offered her solace, and Hacktor worried that his wife was losing her sanity
Little did Hacktor know that as he tended to his grieving wife, the world outside the palace was rapidly changing. Monty Redstone, having proven his worth to thte cabal was now fully entrenched in power in the palace – he continued to make deals and forge alliances, all in preparation for the next phase of the kingdom’s future. The Grand Council, with its mix of scheming nobles and ambitious power brokers, would be a crucible in which the fate of the Rhokki Mountains would be decided and they didn’t plan to keep Hacktor in the mix for long.
The Kon-Herr could feel a storm brewing. He ached to return to battle to clear his mind, yet for now Hacktor remained at the palace, bound by duty to his queen. The winds of change were gathering against him — luckily for him, I wasn’t done with him as my pawn and I’d help him weather that storm.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 