Part XIV: Scrolling Through History
Chapter 6: Demand for Drokkettes
Timeline: AO 304-318
But enough about children – this book is suppossed to be about War!
So what of Hacktor’s War of the Ghast? What result?
Ten years of fighting.
Ten years of death.
And for what?
I sat in the dim light of the chamber, the Eye of Seraphiel glowing softly in my hand. The orb hummed with an ancient energy, its gaze piercing through the layers of time and space, revealing the threads of fate that wove the tapestry of Hacktor’s doomed reign. The Eye showed me everything—the battles fought, the blood spilled, the hopes crushed. I could see it all, every moment, every decision that led to this inevitable downfall.
Hacktor’s holy war was supposed to be his path to glory, his destiny to reshape the world. But as I peered deeper into the past, I saw the cracks that had always been there, the flaws in his grand vision. He had never been close to finding Marduk Garrick of The Golden Hand, a phantom that slipped through his grasp at every turn. My spell, The Veil of the Unseen, ensured that the Marduk remained just out of reach, a tantalizing ghost that drove Hacktor further into madness.
Yet, despite the mounting obstacles, Hacktor’s faith never wavered. He believed, with every fiber of his being, that he was destined to destroy the Marduk, to annihilate the cursed goblins, and to change the world forever. It was almost admirable, his relentless drive, his refusal to see the futility of his actions. Almost. But I let him continue on this path, let him cling to his illusions, for as long as he remained useful to me, I had no reason to shatter his dreams.
Tet even the small victories Hacktor claimed in the Blackwoods came at a great cost. The resources he gained were but a drop in the ocean compared to the vast sums he poured into his war effort. And behind it all, the shadow elites [still led by the reclusive, yet even more powerful Rukstinz], remain the puppet masters who controlled the purse strings and bled his kingdom dry. The common Drokka suffered the most—peasants and lower-middle-class dwarves who once believed in their king now cursed his name. They bore the weight of his ambition, crushed beneath the burden of a war that seemed to have no end.
The years passed, and with them came the creeping rot of Monty’s money minting. The Coinmaster had begun this operation back in AO300 and at first the effects were subtle, barely noticeable to those who weren’t paying attention. But soon enough, the ripples grew into waves. Trading partners from Eastern TerrVerde, once eager to do business with the Drokka, began to turn away. Those who remained demanded more Drokkma and Drokkette for their goods, recognizing the diminished weight and lower purity of the coins. The merchant guilds, squeezed by the demands of their foreign partners, passed the burden onto the Drokka public in the form of higher prices.
Monty’s solution was simple, as always—mint more coins. And so he did, flooding the kingdom with a deluge of worthless currency that only served to inflate prices further. Livestock, textiles, bread—everything soared in cost, and the people began to feel the true weight of Hacktor’s folly. As the cost of the war spiraled out of control, the common Drokka found themselves trapped in a vice, squeezed from all sides by forces they couldn’t see or understand.
But the people were not blind, nor were they silent. As the years dragged on, discontent simmered and then boiled over. The taverns buzzed with talk of the better days under Kon-Herr Baldur, a nostalgia for a time when the kingdom had prospered without the shadow of war looming over them. Protests erupted in the capitals of the Eight Kingdoms, the people demanding an end to the war that was tearing their lives apart. They even threatened to stop sending their sons off to die in a conflict they no longer believed in.
Whilst Hacktor was often away at war, Queen Hecla and Monty did what they could to quell the unrest, but it was a losing battle. The louder voices among the populace began to spread a dangerous rumor—that Hacktor didn’t want to win the war at all. They whispered that the king was deliberately prolonging the conflict, using it as a means to transfer wealth from the commoners into the royal coffers.
[Now seriously, who ever heard of using a war to transfer wealth? How absurd, right?]
When Hacktor finally returned home in the spring of AO 318, he found a kingdom on the brink of revolt. The sight of his people, the very ones he had sworn to protect and lead to glory, now seething with anger and resentment, caught him off guard. But rather than listen to their grievances, rather than try to understand the pain and suffering his war had caused, Hacktor’s pride exploded in fury.
He ordered his Secret Servants to round up anyone suspected of spreading slander against the throne. The prisons filled with the voices of dissent, families torn apart as fathers and sons were dragged away in the dead of night. And then, in a move that would cement his legacy as a tyrant in the eyes of his people, Hacktor organized a public execution for the ringleaders of the protests.
I watched it all unfold through the Eye, the scene playing out like a macabre theatre. The gallows stood tall in the heart of Rhokki Pass, the doomed men lined up before their king. Malchior Der Naves, that ever-loyal cleric, presided over the event with a cold, detached air. Hacktor stood before the crowd, his voice rising above the murmurs of anger and sorrow.
“When I began this war,” he declared, his voice thick with emotion, “did I not warn you that The Drokka who opens the door must be ready for what stands behind it?”
The crowd only grumbled louder in response, a sea of discontent that Hacktor could no longer ignore.
“Yes, I have opened the Door of War,” he continued, his voice rising in frustration. “But unlike you, I have always been ready for any enemy that waited for me. I’ve done it not for any riches, but instead for the glory it will bring our people. For you! After all, my people, what do I care for riches?”
With a dramatic flourish, Hacktor threw handfuls of glittering Drokkettes into the crowd. The people scrambled like rabid dogs, tearing each other’s throats to get to the silver coins. [The crowd didn’t know (and were so desperate they probably would not have cared) that these new coins were even more diluted by Monty’s mint than ever before. Hacktor didn’t know this either (although it’s doubtful he would have cared either). In reality though, the Drokkettes the king tossed out had very little silver in them – in fact they were mostly copper with a silver coating, thus making them nearly worthless].
Meanwhile, men planted in the crowd in advance by Monty began to cheer their thanks to Kon-Herr’s generosity, trying to drown out the stubborn protestors — yet with little success. The crowd’s response was lukewarm at best, the cheers of gratitude drowned out by the anger and resentment that had festered for so long.
Hacktor latched onto the small praise he heard, his pride unwilling to admit the truth. “I fight with my heart and soul. I fight for Rhokki and the Drokka people. Fear not the Ragnarok!”
“For Rhokki is our God!” a few voices called out, but the majority of the crowd remained silent, their anger simmering just beneath the surface.
Before Hacktor could react, Malchior stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. The priest’s voice was calm, but it carried an edge of menace that silenced the crowd. “Rest assured, I see those of you who are causing a problem today. So does our Lord Rhokki. And so do the king’s guards. You shall all eat the fruits of your labors.”
The priest’s warning hung in the air, a chilling reminder of the power that still held the kingdom in its grip. “The Ragnarok is coming. You can choose to join Hacktor and The Faith in bringing it forward, or you can join Baal and his minions in the fires. It’s your choice, and you can only make it once. Never forget that.”
The executions were carried out in silence, the crowd too cowed by fear to cheer or jeer. But the tears that flowed, the silent grief that filled the air, spoke volumes. Hacktor left the event with a foul mood, his pride wounded by the lack of appreciation from his people.
The next day, he abandoned the royal court, retreating to the solitude of the rebuilt Siq Towers. Even Queen Hecla could not reach him there, his obsession with the war and his isolation driving a wedge between them that grew wider with each passing day.
And so, Hacktor’s reign continued, a shadow of the glory he had once envisioned. The common Drokka suffered, the shadow elites tightened their grip on the kingdom, and the war dragged on, a never-ending cycle of death and despair. Through it all, I watched and waited, the Eye of Seraphiel showing me the inevitable end that loomed ever closer.
For now, Hacktor was still useful to me. But the threads of fate were tightening, and soon, even he would realize that his dreams were nothing more than illusions, spun by forces far beyond his control.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 