Part XII: The Reckoning
Chapter 6: Return to Rhokki Pass
Timeline: AO 302
The dim light of the cavernous tunnels cast long, wavering shadows as Hacktor Derkillez and his band of survivors approached the gates of Rhokki Pass. The echoes of their footsteps reverberated through the ancient stone halls, a somber reminder of the underground kingdom’s once-thriving life. Hacktor and his men wore their armor for, having sent a messenger ahead to let the city know of their return, the Kon-Herr and his men were anticipating a glorious return, yet as they walked along it was clear Hacktor’s brow bore the weight of countless trials. His jaw set with determination, the Kon-Herr eyes betrayed a deep unease as he walked beside his friend Fredrik Vendal, whose face was also etched with the strain of their long journey.
They had left Rhokki Pass in early AO 301 and spent the rest of that year in battles that saw them traverse much of Gor and eventually led them all the way to Oz in the far northern mountains. The war had been brutal but as they’d won every battle along the way, it had continued to build Hacktor’s legacy. And then there was Oz – which turned out to be both a blessing and a curse – for it had taken a full year for them to escape its clutches. Now, as they returned near to the last days of AO 302, Hacktor could feel the kingdom’s atmosphere had shifted in ways he could not yet comprehend.
“We’re nearly there,” Fredrik murmured, his voice echoing softly in the Drokka Byways. “But I fear what we’ll find when we get back. Who knows what the wolves have done with no one to stand in their way.”
Hacktor gave a curt nod, his eyes fixed on the gates ahead. “We’ll face it, whatever it is.”
The gates of Rhokki Pass that guarded the Drokka Byway Passage to the north were carved from the very heart of the mountain and loomed before them. They had once been a symbol of the Drokka’s might, but now they seemed more like a barrier between Hacktor and a reality he would seen be forced to face. The stone doors, bustling with activity centuries passed hadn’t been opened fully in nearly 250 years. When the Kon-Herr and his party finally arrived there was no welcoming party to greet them, no banners fluttering in the subterranean breeze.
“Something’s wrong,” Hacktor muttered, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword. “They knew we were coming. This makes no sense.”
The soldiers behind him exchanged nervous glances, their own unease growing. As they approached, Hacktor sent forth is envoy Hadrik Klyntz to call for the guards inside to open the gates. A moment passed, and then the heavy stone doors creaked open slowly, revealing the gateway to Rhokki Pass—only something was clearly a miss.
The bustling underground city was anything but active. The great caverns, carved from the living rock and adorned with the intricate craftsmanship of the Drokka, now appeared neglected and dirty. The air, usually filled with the sounds of industry and life, was thick with the scent of frustration and despair. Dimly lit corridors led to marketplaces that were once vibrant with trade but now stood mostly empty, and those stragglers who remained were mostly desperate, hollow-eyed merchants who all seemed to be covering their faces.
Hacktor’s heart sank as he took in the sight before him. The Drokka he had begun to lift up and return to pride after Baldur’s death had now sunk back into a population that was being ground down by hardship and suffering. The few faces that turned toward him were gaunt beneath their scarves, their eyes a mix of fear, anger, and hopelessness. The pride that had once filled Rhokki Pass when last he left was now a distant memory.
“This… this isn’t the city we left,” Fredrik whispered, his voice barely audible.
Hacktor could only stare in disbelief. “What in Rhokki’s name has happened here?”
As they moved deeper into the city, the extent of the kingdom’s decline became even more apparent. The walls, once meticulously maintained, were crumbling in places, with the stone cracked and the once-shining metals tarnished. The people who had once cheered Hacktor’s name now whispered behind his back, their words carrying the bitter edge of betrayal.
“It’s his fault,” a woman hissed from her doorway as they passed, clutching her ragged cloak tightly around her. “He brought this upon us.”
A little further on they encountered another man who pointed, “Rhokki has turned his back on us because of him.” The man lowered his scarf and spat at Hacktor’s group and then ran off down the alley.
The words of his people cut deeper than any sword. Hacktor could feel the resentment growing, a festering wound that threatened to consume the entire kingdom. The burden of leadership, which he had once shouldered with pride, now weighed heavily upon him, pressing down like the very mountains above.
“Milord,” Fredrik spoke softly, his voice tinged with concern. “We must speak with the council. They need to hear the truth from you.”
Hacktor nodded slowly, though his thoughts were a whirlwind of doubt and he couldn’t help but wander what was going on with his sister the Queen and his daughter Livy – they hadn’t been present to greet his arrival and his heart ached for them with every passing minute. Yet surely The Council will be waiting for me and surely my love will be there too.
The Kon-Herr dismissed his soldiers and disbanded his party – sending the anxious off to find their own families, whilst he and Herr Fredrick made their way towards the palace and the great council chamber. As they neared the palace Hacktor’s resolve began to harden. He had faced enemies on the battlefield, but this—this was something far more insidious. The forces that had conspired against him were not just external; they had wormed their way into the very heart of the Drokka.
I will face them head-on, he vowed. I will root out the corruption to the very core! And he felt the familiar weight of the Ghast on his back a reminder of his power.
The heavy iron doors of the council chamber groaned as they swung open, announcing the arrival of the one figure who had been on everyone’s mind but who none truly expected to see again. Hacktor Derkillez, the mighty warlord, stood in the threshold with his ally Fredrik Vendal of Kel-de-Kaba, the armor of both Drokka still dusty from their long journey through the Byways. Hacktor’s eyes were sharp, his presence commanding as he scanned the room filled with the kingdom’s elite.
The council members rose in a mixture of shock and disbelief. Murmurs swept through the chamber like a gust of wind. They had been warned of his return by an advance messenger, but the sight of their king in the flesh—a Drokka they had presumed dead—left them unnerved.
Lord Aric was the first to speak, his voice wavering despite his best efforts to sound composed. “Hacktor… you… you’ve returned.”
Hacktor strode into the room, his boots echoing off the stone floor. He said nothing, his gaze sweeping over the council, noting the unease in their faces. He had faced Derkka warriors and the terrors of the Oz, but the atmosphere in this chamber was a different kind of battlefield, one laden with secrets and deceit.
“Where is Hecla?” Hacktor demanded, his voice as cold as the mountain stone surrounding them. “Why is my queen not here to greet me?”
Monty, the obese Coinmaster, shifted nervously as he grabbed at his flaming red locks, his eyes darting to the floor. “My lord, Queen Hecla was not informed in time of your arrival. She… she will be here shortly.”
Hacktor’s eyes narrowed. He could smell fear, and it was thick in the room. Fukbyl Gaatz, standing near the door on trembling legs, appeared sick. The sweat on his brow glistened as he looked for an escape, not daring to meet Hacktor’s gaze. Without a word, he turned and bolted from the chamber, his cowardice on full display. Hacktor watched him go with a mixture of disdain and suspicion.
The room fell into an uneasy silence, broken only by Hacktor’s steely voice. “Tell me what has happened while I’ve been away. What of the kingdom? What of the people?”
Chaney Busz cleared his throat, attempting to muster a semblance of authority. “The kingdom has faced many trials, Hacktor. The plague known as Zarz has spread through the lower ranks, decimating the peasants and leaving many dead. The people… they are suffering.”
Hacktor’s eyes bore into Lord Aric, who faltered under the intensity of his gaze. “And what of Rhokki Pass?”
“The war… it has drained much of our wealth, Lord Hacktor,” Monty interjected, still avoiding Hacktor’s piercing eyes. “But we have… managed. The treasury… well, it is not as it once was, but we are doing what we can.”
Hacktor sensed there was more to the story, something unspoken. The unease in the room told him that the kingdom’s decline was not solely due to the war or the plague. The greed of the elite, their profiteering off the war and the people’s misery, hung in the air like a foul stench, but no one dared speak of it.
Hacktor’s patience was wearing thin. “You speak of the people suffering, but what have you done to ease their pain? What of Hecla? Has she been burdened alone with these trials?”
Before anyone could answer, the doors of the chamber opened again, and Hecla entered, her face alight with relief and joy. She moved swiftly across the room, and without hesitation, she embraced Hacktor, her voice a mix of laughter and tears. “Hacktor, you’re alive! By Rhokki, you’ve returned!”
Hacktor’s stern expression softened as he wrapped his arms around her, the tension in the room momentarily dissipating. “Hecla, my love,” he whispered, “I told you I would return.”
Little Livy darted out from behind Hecla’s skirts, her small face beaming with delight. She ran to Hacktor and clung to his leg. “Father! I knew you weren’t dead!”
Hacktor scooped her up with one arm, holding Hecla with the other. For a brief moment, the world outside the chamber walls seemed distant and unimportant. The council watched, the weight of their sins momentarily lifted by the sight of this long-awaited reunion.
But as Hecla pulled back, her face grew serious. “There is much you need to know, Hacktor. The kingdom… it is not as it was when you left.”
Hacktor nodded, his eyes meeting hers. “I feared as much. But I am here now, and together, we will set things right.”
The council members exchanged nervous glances, knowing that their time of reckoning had come. Monty fidgeted, his heart sinking as he realized that Hecla’s loyalty to Hacktor remained unbroken. The game he had been playing, his attempts to sway Hecla’s favor, now felt like a dangerous miscalculation.
But as Hacktor turned back to face the council, his daughter still in his arms, the elites could see that their warlord had returned not just to reunite with his family, but to reclaim his kingdom—and woe to those who had betrayed him in his absence.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 