Part XIV: Scrolling Through History
Chapter 1: The Threads of Fate
Timeline: AO 304-318
Now that I was back to feeling like myself again, it was time to see what Hacktor had been up to. The Cradle of Despair, the Womb of Forgotten Dreams—it had all taken its toll on me, but I wasn’t one to dwell on failures for long. I had other matters to attend to, more important plans that didn’t involve being swallowed whole by despair. And so, I found myself in my library at Nektar’s Cauldron, surrounded by the comforting darkness of my domain.
I pulled out The Eye of Seraphiel – it was an ancient artifact, its surface smooth and cold, swirling with a faint light that seemed to pulse with the secrets it held. The Eye allowed me to peer into the past, to trace the threads of fate that wove the tapestry of history. Hacktor Derkillez, my pawn, my instrument—what had he been up to during the years I had been chasing shadows?
Settling into a comfy chair, I placed the Eye before me on a small pedestal, its light dim and ominous, casting long shadows across the library. A carafe of blood-wine rested on a table beside me, its deep red hue glinting in the flickering light. I poured myself a goblet, the rich, iron tang of the wine filling my senses as I prepared to delve into the past.
“Let’s see what my little pawn has been doing,” I muttered to myself, my voice a rasp in the still air. The Eye of Seraphiel flared to life, its light intensifying as I focused my will on it. Over the years I’d become a master with The Eye and the room around me soon faded, replaced by a swirling vortex of time, a maelstrom of moments, each one connected by the fragile threads of fate.
I began to sift through those threads, pulling at the ones that pertained to Hacktor and his people. Fourteen years had passed since I last took a good look at them, and as I began to unravel their history, I realized just how much I had missed.
It seemed that Hacktor had been quite busy in my absence. Not that it surprised me—he was always the diligent one, driven by a sense of purpose that bordered on obsession. The war had continued, of course. How could it not? The Drokka and Derkka were destined to clash, their hatred for each other fueled by centuries of enmity, by my guiding hand, and by the whims of the gods.
In those early years, Hacktor had seen some success. His victories at Antarez Ford and Razzyn, and his retaking of Oz had brought more of the Drokka commoners into his army. His forces had swelled, bolstered by Mirkir’s assurances that the blessings of Rhokki and Kalypzo were upon them. The Kon-Herr’s generals had led their troops with renewed vigor, confident in their impending victory. Yet, despite those initial triumphs, the years that followed were marked by monotony and frustration.
The war had settled into a grueling pattern. Each spring, Hacktor led his armies to war, and each fall, they returned to their homeland, having achieved little more than the year before. They never managed to cross the Coctyz River, never posed a real threat to Garrick and his capital city of Babel. The war had become a stalemate, with neither side able to gain the upper hand.
I learned that the Derkka as a whole had grown stronger. Although Garrick became distracted by ‘other pursuits,’ his people had reorganized their defenses, fortifying their border towns and mustering their troops into a more formidable force. Though the Derkka were not skilled warriors by nature, their sheer numbers and the cunning of the Babelonian generals held their own against Hacktor’s men.
And so, the Drokka, once so confident in their victory, eventually found themselves bogged down in a war of attrition, their ranks thinning a bit with each passing year.
And what of Hacktor? The threads of fate revealed a Drokka who had become increasingly bitter, his anger festering like a wound that refused to heal. The victories that had once filled him with pride now seemed hollow, the spoils of war mere trinkets compared to the glory he sought. Each year, he returned to the Well of Wyzdom, seeking the guidance of the Spirit, only to find… silence.
[Of course, the Spirit had been absent for a reason—I had been off on my own adventure, chasing after the Cradle and the mysteries it held. I had no time to play the part of the wise counselor to a mortal king].
But Hacktor didn’t know that. All he knew was that his prayers went unanswered, his offerings unaccepted. His faith, once so strong, had begun to waver.
And then there was the matter of Garrick. It amused me to no end that despite the years of conflict, Hacktor and Garrick had never once faced each other on the battlefield. It was no accident, of course. From the very start of the war, I had placed a spell upon them, a powerful enchantment that ensured they could never be in the same place at the same time.
The spell—The Veil of the Unseen—was my own creation, woven from the very threads of fate that I now plucked at with such ease. It kept them apart, ensuring that the final confrontation I had planned would not occur until I was ready. They were my pawns, and I would not allow them to clash until the moment was right.
So, for fourteen years, the fates conspired to keep them apart. Hacktor fought his battles, led his armies, and Garrick – well he was off doing other things. But the game had taken its toll on Hacktor. The threads of fate showed me a dwarf who was also losing hope, his victories tainted by the bitterness of unfulfilled dreams. After each campaign, he returned home, not in triumph, but in frustration – yet even at home he was unable to find solace for more often than not he met with unwelcome news about his family. Thus while he men, eager to spend their spoils in the taverns and brothels inside the mountain towns, Hacktor became more and more isolated brooding in his chambers where he was consumed by anger and self-doubt.
I watched his most recent return in AO 318 – I saw how he sulked in his room, the weight of his failures pressing down on him. His anger was palpable, a dark cloud that hung over him, suffocating his spirit. He had given everything to this war—his time, his energy, his soul—and yet, he had nothing legendary to show for it. Worse yet was the tragedy that had befallen his children. All these evils caused the king to conclude that the gods had forsaken him.
His thoughts were a maelstrom of bitterness and regret, and I could feel his despair as if it were my own. It was delicious, in a way, to see him suffer so. But even I could not deny the pang of pity that stirred within me. Hacktor was my creation, my pawn, and his suffering was, in a sense, my own.
“Fool,” I whispered to myself, watching as he brooded in the darkness of his tent. “You should have known better than to place your faith in gods and spirits. They care nothing for your struggles, for your victories or defeats. You are nothing to them, just as you are nothing to me.”
And yet, even as I spoke the words, I knew they were not entirely true. Perhaps it was the wine’s effect on me, but I couldn’t help but think that perhaps Hacktor was something to me after wall. He was my instrument, my tool, and his fate was inextricably linked to mine. His suffering was necessary, yes, but it was also a reminder of my own failures, my own shortcomings.
I took another long drink from my goblet, the blood-wine warming me from the inside out. The threads of fate continued to swirl around me, and I let them drift for a moment, my mind lingering on the image of Hacktor, alone in his tent, consumed by his own demons.
But there was more to see, more to uncover. I had neglected Hacktor and his people for too long, and it was time to correct that. I let my focus sharpen once more, pulling at the threads that led deeper into the past, searching for the moments that mattered, the events that had shaped Hacktor’s fate.
And as I continued to delve into the past, I could feel the weight of the fates pressing down on me, a reminder that even I was not immune to their pull. The game was far from over, and Hacktor’s role in it was far from finished.
The Eye of Seraphiel pulsed with a dark light, revealing the threads that bound Hacktor to his destiny. I would follow those threads, uncover their secrets, and in doing so, I would ensure that my plans came to fruition. Hacktor’s fate was mine to shape, and I would not let him slip from my grasp.
The war was not over. The game was still every much in play. And I, Azazel, was the still the master of it all!
The Apocrypha of Azazel 