Part XII: The Reckoning
Chapter 1: Oz
Timeline AO 301
Prior to the landslide, whilst Hacktor’s forces were still on their journey towards Oz, they could feel the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon them. The twisted forests and barren hills that surrounded the road to their lost kingdom were a stark reminder that they were still deep in enemy territory, far from the familiar caverns of Rhokki Pass. The men’s songs were quieter now, their steps slower, but their faith in Kalypzo and Rhokki did not waver. They prayed as they marched, asking for their gods protection in the face of the unknown, trusting that they would lead them safely through this desolate land.
As for Hacktor Derkillez, he was still celebrating in his own way – his pride beaming as he brought his army into the shadowed embrace of the Oz mountains, his heart brimming with anticipation. The opening to Oz was soon visible and it was Hacktor who was at the head of his forces – the first to breach the ancient stronghold that had once been the cradle of Drokka civilization under the legendary Ajax the Freemaker!
The air within the mountains was thick with the weight of history, and the silence was almost reverent, as if the very stones were waiting to speak – to glorify the name of Hacktor Derkillez – Kon Herr of the Mountains!
But as the young king’s boots struck the stone floor of the long-abandoned halls, he was blissfully unaware of the perils closing in behind him. The storms that had shielded his passage across the plains had also served to blind him to the movements of his enemies. Garrick of the Golden Hand and his forces had been hot on their trail, but they might as well have been ghosts, hidden by Baal’s tempestuous weather for Hacktor never saw them.
Now, as the final part of Hacktor’s army was passing through the mountain’s maw, with the supply wagons and all their booty to follow after that, suddenly the earth trembled ominously. A low rumble echoed through the caverns, growing louder with each passing second. When the ground began to tremble beneath their feet, the soldiers instinctively halted, eyes wide with fear. The earth groaned, and for a moment, it seemed as though the very mountains were collapsing around them. Hacktor, standing in the great hall that was the entrance to Oz, turned to see the mountainside shift and then collapse in a torrent of rock and debris!
The entrance to Oz was sealed, the path to the outside world buried under tons of unyielding stone. The Drokka who had been left outside with the wagons, horses, and supplies were cut off, abandoned to whatever fate awaited them on the plains. Inside, panic began to spread among the ranks.
Whispers of dread circulated through the gathered Drokka, the fear palpable. “We are trapped!” one of the merchants who managed to get inside early cried, his voice trembling with despair.
“Hacktor has led us into a death trap,” a young soldier whispered to his friend under his breath, careful not to let the words reach Hacktor’s ears.
The once-proud warriors and their retinues, who had marched with such confidence, now faced the grim reality that they were sealed inside a tomb. Hacktor, however, would not allow fear to fester. Keeping a sound mind, he ordered scouts to explore the depths of Oz, to find any remnants of the old kingdom that could offer salvation.
“Don’t worry, Drokka!” Hacktor proclaimed. “Trust in our god, Rhokki. He didn’t bring us all this way to abandon us now.”
“Kalypzo be praised!” Gromm shouted, his voice ringing out in the stillness. “She has buried our enemies and granted us safe passage!”
“Surely there is sustenance and safety in Ajax’s kingdom.” Fredrik Vendal assured the men.
The others quickly took up the cry, their voices filled with renewed hope, offering prayers to the goddess as well as Rhokki too. Some of the soldiers wasted no time in constructing a makeshift shrine to Kalypzo. Using the stones and earth around them, they built an altar in her honor, placing small tokens of their devotion upon it—pieces of blackwood, carved stones, and the bloodied weapons of fallen comrades. The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs, and the men gathered around the shrine, bowing their heads in prayer.
“Kalypzo, Mother of Earth, hear our plea,” intoned one of the priests that travelled with the troops, his voice steady and clear. “You have guided us through the darkness, sheltered us from harm, and shielded us from our foes. In this hour of need, we ask for your continued protection. Let your strength flow through us, your wisdom guide us, and your love sustain us. May your earth cradle us as we rest and stand firm beneath us as we fight. Blessed be Kalypzo, now and forever.”
The men repeated the prayer in unison, their voices resonating through the cavern, and a sense of calm settled over them. With Kalypzo watching over them, they felt prepared to face whatever trials awaited them in the depths of Oz.
While they waited for the scouts to report back about the state of the kingdom of Oz, Fredrik and Hacktor sat opposite each other and apart from the men. Like the rest of those trapped inside the mountains they cold, hungry, and desperate.
Fredrik rubbed his temples. “Should we have been more cautious when we had the chance? Sent scouts in ahead of the main forces?”
Hacktor slammed his fist on the ground, scattering the dice they’d been using to try to distract themselves. “What care I for caution, Fred?”
Fredrik’s eyes flashed with anger. “This isn’t about bravery; it’s about surviving, Hack! We can’t rebuild our strength if we keep charging headlong into death.” And lowering his voice he added, “We don’t know what’s here. We may well be trapped!”
For a moment, Hacktor was silent, his fists clenched. Finally, he looked away, muttering, “I know, Fred. I know.”
The admission hung in the air, surprising them both. Fredrik leaned forward, his voice softer. “Hack… I’m only hard on you because I see your worth. We’re more than just Kon-Herr’s with blades. One day, you’ll be the as much a legend as Ajax!”
Hacktor’s gaze shifted to Fredrik’s, a spark of respect flickering beneath the frustration. “You think so?”
Fredrik nodded, a rare smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I know so. But you have to let yourself live long enough to see it.”
Yet hours later, every one of the scouts returned with bad news: the passageways leading to key rooms had all been sealed, and worse, the route to the Drokka Byways—their lifeline to the southern kingdoms—had been intentionally collapsed centuries ago by the last defenders of Oz. There was no food, no provisions, and no way out! The army’s morale immediately plummeted, with everyone beginning to despair at the thought of starvation and death.
Yet some of the strongest among them set to work at the entrance and tried moving the landslide that had sealed them in. They were led by Gromm who proclaimed, “By the Right hand of Rhokki, we can do this!”
“It might work.” Fredrik Vendal observed to Hacktor as they watched the men work.
But their efforts were futile – the task was too monumental.
“It will take weeks, perhaps months of labor,” one of the chief miners reported to Hacktor. “And there’s no guarantee of success.”
Gromm was exhausted from the effort, “That stone is immovable, my lord. As if the mountain itself is determined to keep us prisoner.”
It seemed to all that Hacktor’s star, which had shone so brightly after the fall of Razzyn, was now on the verge of flickering out, his legacy threatened with erasure. For Hacktor himself knew that there would be no one to tell the tale of his exploits, no one to write of his victories in the Kroniklz – and the thought of dying in obscurity, his achievements lost to the void, began to gnaw at him.
That night, in the solitude of his quarters, Hacktor felt the cold grip of panic. The weight of his responsibility pressed down on him, and for the first time in years, he felt the sting of helplessness. But then, as if from the depths of his memory, a thought came to him—he still had the Ghast. The enchanted axe that had sundered the gates of Razzyn could surely do the same to the landslide that imprisoned them.
“The people need hope,” He jumped up to grab his axe, “And I will give it to them!”
He quickly summoned his warriors, his captains, and the common folk alike, and gathered them at the base of the sealed entrance.
They watched with bated breath as Hacktor, the hero of Razzyn, raised the Ghast high above his head. The runes on the axe glowed with a fierce light, promising salvation. The air was electric with anticipation; the crowd could feel the power radiating from the weapon. Hacktor wanted them to see, to witness his triumph, to remember this moment when he once again delivered them from certain death.
But just as he was about to bring the Ghast down upon the stone, a voice rang out, clear and commanding, “STOP!”
That’s when I stepped from the shadows – appearing in the guise of their god Rhokki – tall, muscular, imposing – my presence exuding an aura of ancient authority. With a bare chest, and wearing breeches that reflected the deep hues of the mountain, my eyes gleaming like rubies.
Hacktor hesitated, the Ghast still poised to strike, as he beheld the figure. “My Lord Rhokki!”
I smiled at the Kon-Herr, “You would not destroy the work of my lover who saved you, would you, Hacktor?” Then to his people. “I have seen the way you honor Kalypzo. It was she who saved you with the landslide. And because of your faith, I will protect you now. I will not abandon you.”
The crowd murmured in awe, recognizing their ancient god, the very spirit of the Drokka mountains – or at least the one I had long led them to believe cared about them. As Rhokki, I stepped forward, placing a hand on the stone that had so recently threatened to entomb them. “Fear not,” I said, my voice carrying a soothing warmth. “For I have watched your deeds, Hacktor, and I am pleased. This land, this kingdom of Oz, is now yours to restore and to glorify once more.”
Hacktor, still gripping the Ghast, could hardly believe his ears. “But we are trapped,” he began, but I silenced him with a gentle gesture.
“You are not trapped, my child,” I assured him. “You are chosen. The passageways you seek can be reopened, but not with force. I will show you the way, and in time, you will return to Rhokki Pass, where the glory that is rightfully yours will be bestowed upon you.”
With a wave of my hand, I summoned forth sustenance from the mountains themselves—mushrooms of strange colors and shapes, roots that pulsed with a life of their own, and streams of clear, pure water that had been hidden in the depths of Oz. The people, who had been on the brink of despair, now looked upon Hacktor with renewed reverence, their fear replaced by hope and gratitude. They feasted that night, their spirits lifted, and Hacktor was once again the hero, the savior of his people.
As the night wore on, I spoke to Hacktor in private, revealing the secrets of the ancient kingdom. I guided him to the old maps, the forgotten lore, and the rituals that would allow Hacktor to re-establish Oz as a beacon of Drokka power. I also whispered to him the secret of the Drokka Byways, showing him how they could be reopened—not by the brute force of the Ghast, but through the ancient rituals of the Drokka kings.
When the dawn broke, Hacktor stood before his people, a new resolve burning in his eyes. “We will restore Oz,” he declared, his voice strong and sure. “We will make this kingdom great again, and when the time is right, we will return to Rhokki Pass, where our glory will be known to all.”
The people cheered, their faith in Hacktor renewed. The shadow of despair that had hung over them was lifted, and in its place, a new determination took root. They would rebuild, they would survive, and they would emerge stronger than ever before. And Hacktor, once again, would lead them to victory.
But how long would it take them to rebuild Oz? How long would it be before they ever saw home again at Rhokki Pass and beyond? How long indeed…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 