Part XVII: The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul
Chapter 1: Hacktor’s Return
Timeline: AO 323
With the help of the goddess Kalypzo (or at least my version of her) Hacktor and a small band of survivors were safe inside Oz. But now they were trapped, with an unknown force of myz and goblins still presumably camped outside the mountain across the chasm that Kalypzo’s wrath had created.
With the mission to rescue Heraclez largely a failure (the general died after all) and with no reason to stay, Hacktor led his people home via the Drokka Byways. It wasn’t a happy trip – with loss of thousands of Drokka, the failure to rescue Heraclez or truly save the kingdom of Oz, and the knowledge that this war was far from over all weighed heavily on The Kon-Herr. His defeat was undeniable, and the cost was steep. But as I watched Hacktor’s weary form make his way back to Rhokki Pass, I couldn’t help but smile. The war was far from over, and there was still so much more to play out. Hacktor might be down, but he was not out. And that, my dear, is when the game gets truly interesting.
The mountain air inside Rhokki Pass was bleak, cold, and utterly devoid of hope. Just the way I liked it as Hacktor led his ragged band of survivors through the gates of the main kingdom – like a wolf with its tail between its legs. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. The Kon-Herr, the once-proud warrior-king of the Drokka, now returned a failure – the kingdom of Oz had not been saved. Heraclez had perished, a corpse left to rot in that cursed wasteland, and Hacktor had nothing to show for his efforts but broken armor, broken men, and an even more broken spirit.
And that, of course, is what made this moment so delicious. Watching with The Eye, I saw Hacktor’s every shuffling step, every glance over his shoulder. His eyes, hollow and bloodshot, told the whole story. Regret. And somewhere deep down, the realization that he was losing the war—both the one on the battlefield and the one within himself.
As Hacktor trudged on, I couldn’t help but smirk. He wasn’t beaten, not yet. But he was in full on despair – and that’s my playground. Desperate men make the best pawns.
And it was that Hacktor’s safe return to Rhokki Pass wasn’t a victory. It was just the prelude to something much darker. I could see it on his face. He knew it too. His men might be safe behind back inside their mountain fortress walls, but their spirits were crushed. And Hacktor—well, he was about to learn that even kings can’t always come back from the abyss.
And what of Hecla?
When Hacktor entered the royal apartments of his palace, the doors groaned as they closed behind him. The chamber was dim, lit only by the flickering flames of a hearth that cast shadows across the stone walls. Heavy tapestries hung from the ceiling, adorned with the symbols of the Drokka clans—great hammers, iron swords, and the crest of his Derkillez lineage. But the air was cold, and the warmth of the fire seemed distant, as if the room itself had grown weary of hosting the fractured lives within.
In the center of the room, standing proud and composed, was Hecla.
His wife was still beautiful, of course—too beautiful, in fact. Even after all these years, the wear of time had only sharpened her features, not dulled them like her twin Hacktor’s. Her long, raven-black hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her deep green eyes pierced Hacktor with an intensity that had once made him feel invincible. She wore a form fitting gown of dark velvet, the deep indigo color reminding him of the night sky he’d seen in The World Above. A delicate silver chain hung around her neck, adorned with a single gemstone that gleamed faintly in the firelight—a gift from him, once upon a time, when gifts between them still carried meaning.
But now, her beauty felt distant. Like the warmth of the hearth, it did not reach him.
“Welcome home, husband,” she said, her voice like a blade drawn from its sheath.
Hacktor winced at the formality, the icy tone. Once, Hecla’s voice had been his comfort, her words like a balm after the battles he fought. Now, they were arrows, aimed with precision, each one finding its mark.
He shifted his weight, avoiding her gaze. “The mission… it failed. Heraclez is dead. Untold thousands of our soldiers… gone.”
“Yes, I’ve heard the tales of your glorious return,” Hecla replied, stepping forward. The clink of her silver bracelets echoed in the stillness. “How many must die before you realize what you’ve become, Hacktor? A king without a kingdom. A father without a family.”
Hacktor’s hands clenched into fists, the weight of her words settling on his shoulders like the armor he no longer wore. “I fought for us. For our people. I—”
“You fought for yourself!” Hecla cut him off, her eyes flashing. “You fought because you crave the glory of war, because you can’t bear the idea of being anything but the great Kon-Herr. The kingdom crumbles around us, Hacktor, and all you can think of is the next battle, the next enemy. You don’t even see what’s happening here.”
“And what’s happening here?” Hacktor growled, his frustration spilling over. “That I have no choice? That war is the only way to protect our people? So said the gods themselves! What would you have me do, Hecla, sit idly by while The Derkka devour us?”
“I would have you be a husband. A father. A king who cares about more than his sword!” Hecla’s voice cracked, just for a moment, but she caught herself quickly, pulling her emotions back under control. “Our son Alf is lost to Mirkir. Who knows what has become of Livy. And what of the others you refuse to name? Garl, Uriel, Jini? Are they just forgotten now, casualties in your endless war?”
Hacktor’s face darkened at the mention of his lost children. Each name was a dagger to the heart. But what could he say? They were gone, taken by fate or by the consequences of his decisions. “I didn’t choose for them to die,” he whispered, his voice strained. “I never wanted any of this.”
“No,” Hecla said softly, her eyes narrowing. “You just didn’t stop it.”
There was silence between them, thick and heavy like the stone walls that surrounded them. The tension in the room was unbearable, the weight of their shared history pressing down on them both.
Finally, Hecla turned away from him, her back stiff. “You should rest, Hacktor. You look like a man who’s already been defeated.”
Her words hung in the air, and Hacktor could find no reply – he simply turned and left the room. Meanwhile Hecla stood motionless, her shoulders trembling ever so slightly, but she did not let him see.
A few nights later Hacktor sat alone in his study, his hands wrapped around a tarnished silver cup. The liquor burned as it slid down his throat, but he welcomed the sting. It was a distraction, a momentary reprieve from the endless battle waging inside his mind. He poured himself another drink, watching the amber liquid swirl in the cup before throwing it back in one gulp.
“Cursed gods,” he muttered under his breath, slamming the cup down on the wooden table. The sound echoed through the small room, but no one came. No one cared.
His thoughts drifted to the battlefield, to the faces of the men he had lost, to Heraclez’s lifeless body. What was it all for? The glory he had once sought now tasted like ashes. Even the gods, it seemed, had turned their backs on him. Shedu Mazai, he thought bitterly, The Spirit of the Well – have all his promises been a lie? And Kalypzo saved me, yes, but for what? To watch me lose everything else? To be a failure on the battlefield and in life?
Hacktor stared into the cup, hollow-eyed and weary. “Where are you now, Rhokki?” he muttered, calling out to the Drokka god. “Where are you when I need you?”
But there was no answer. The gods were silent, as they always were. Perhaps they had abandoned him long ago, or perhaps it was he who had abandoned them in his pursuit of something greater—something he could never truly attain.
The liquor didn’t dull the pain, not really. But it was all he had left.
That same evening, in another part of the palace, Queen Hecla stood in front of a window, staring out at the lights in the city beyond the walls. The cold air of the mountains seeped through the cracks, chilling her, but she barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere, consumed by the emptiness that had grown between her and Hacktor.
She still longed for the man she had married—the warrior who had fought with passion, not just for glory but for the love of his people and his family – and most importantly for her. Yet she fear that Drokka was gone now, replaced by a shadow of himself, a king who cared more for battles fought far from home than for the kingdom he was meant to protect, then for the queen he was destined to love.
Her fingers traced the silver chain around her neck, the gemstone resting against her chest. This was once a symbol of his love, she thought bitterly. Now it felt like a relic of a life she no longer knew.
A tear slid down her cheek, but she wiped it away quickly. Hecla was not one to cry. She had always been strong – stronger than Hacktor in many ways – but after so many disappointments in life, even her strength was beginning to falter.
Her thoughts turned, unbidden, to another. Belgrath. The bard. The one who had once, if only for a fleeting moment, made her feel alive. It had been nothing, really, a brief affair that was over before it ever amounted to anything. A dalliance in poetry and song, in stolen glances and whispered words. And a brief snatch of forbidden pleasure. Was it grand? Yes. But Belgrath had never truly loved her. He loves no woman for long. She thought.
And yet, for that brief moment, the magic of the music man had made her believe in something more, something beyond the cold stone walls of Rhokki Pass and the endless wars. Yet that too was but a fantasy. She reminded herself. There could never be anything between them, not really. Belgrath was a wanderer, a soul untethered by love or loyalty. He had already moved on, no doubt, to his next conquest, his next fleeting romance.
And yet, despite knowing all this, there was a part of Hecla that ached for that fleeting spark, for the warmth she had felt in his presence—warmth that was now absent in her marriage, in her life.
But I am The Queen. Hecla averred. And queens didn’t indulge in fantasies.
As she stood there, staring into the darkness, Hecla felt the weight of her crown pressing down on her. Was there any way back to the man she loved? Or had Hacktor, and their marriage, been consumed by the fires of this evil life?
She didn’t know. But she wasn’t sure how much longer she could wait to find out.
A week later, whilst the rest of the city slept, Hacktor found himself kneeling before the cold stone altar at the Temple of Rhokki Pass. He’d woken Malchior up and commanded the priest to let him into the church for some alone time with the gods. The cleric knew better than to argue with the king so Malchior did as he was told and then left Hacktor in peace.
As the Kon-Herr knelt, he felt the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders like the mountains all around him. His knees dug into the rough, unyielding rock beneath him, but the pain barely registered. The flickering torchlight cast long, wavering shadows across the ancient statues of Rhokki and Kalypzo, the Drokka gods to whom he had sworn his life.
He bowed his head, closing his eyes tightly, hoping for some sense of connection, some flicker of divine presence that might give him solace. Nothing came. The gods, once so near in his youth, now felt distant, as if they had abandoned him just when he needed them most. And yet Hacktor didn’t give up – with hands clasped together in prayer, he whispered, “Rh… Rhokki, Kalypzo… hear me. I have given you everything. My life, my blood, my children… my heart. I’ve fought for your glory, I’ve bled for your cause. Yet… what more can I give?”
Yet his words fell flat in the empty temple, swallowed by the void of silence that had become so familiar to him. He inhaled deeply, trying to hold back the rising tide of frustration. The war had now dragged on for two long decades, stretching like an endless curse over his people. Victory, always so tantalizingly close, slipped through his fingers time and again. Oz, the city they had bled for, was likely lost again – the enemy surely having found a way across the chasm by now and into that forsaken kingdom. Would he save it again? Why?
His heart clenched as the thoughts of his children then crossed his mind. One by one, they had been taken from him—some by illness, others by the mischief, all in cruel and senseless ways. His friends, too, had deserted him, whether by death or betrayal. He had tried to shield his loved ones, to protect them from the horrors of the world, but the gods—his gods—had allowed their suffering, and for what? Was it not enough that he was marked from birth as a Royal Balkery, chosen to serve them, molded into a weapon for their purposes?
A tear slipped down his scarred cheek, though he did not notice. “Why, Rhokki?” he whispered, his voice raw. “Why, Kalypzo? Have I failed you somehow? Have I not been your most loyal servant? I do not understand. What do you want from me? Why is it that no matter how much I give, it is never enough?”
Hacktor’s thoughts turned bitter, his fists clenching. Shedu Mazai. The voice from the Well of Wyzdom. He had listened to the god all those years ago, knowing he was evil yet desperate answers – for that was the only god who had offered secrets to Hacktor when all the others were silent. Was that why the gods have spurned me?
“Was it that?” he asked aloud, as if the stones themselves might respond. “Was that my sin? That I listened to the evil one when no one else would speak to me? Yet what choice did I have? The rest of you were silent – why?”
There was no answer, only the hollow echo of his own voice. Hacktor’s frustration gave way to despair. He had accepted long ago that he was a tool of the gods, a sword in their hands. He had made peace with that. But what more do you want from me? I have sacrificed everything—my family, my friends, my youth, my love. Even…even Hecla is slipping away…and I don’t know how to stop it.
“Is it not enough?” he asked, his voice cracking. “I have nothing left, nothing. I have followed your will, I have done everything in my power to fulfill my destiny. But I cannot do this alone. I am… lost.”
Hacktor raised his eyes to the statues, still towering, yet impassive. Rhokki, the god of strength and war, and Kalypzo, the goddess of the earth—two forces that had shaped his life from the moment he took his first breath. He had spent his entire life serving them, believing that his fate was intertwined with theirs, that his purpose was to bring glory to their names. But now, standing on the edge of ruin, he questioned everything.
“If I am not to serve you, then what is my purpose? What is the right thing if not this?”
The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Hacktor bowed his head again, feeling utterly forsaken. He had always believed that the gods had a plan for him, that his suffering had meaning, that his sacrifices would lead to something greater. But now, as his kingdom crumbled, as his family and friends vanished like smoke, he wasn’t so sure.
For all his faults, Hacktor Derkillez wanted nothing more than to do the right thing. But if serving the gods was not the right path, then what was left?
As the royal family crumbled, so too did the Drokka people. That Hacktor’s army had suffered an unquestioned defeat could not be denied – for thousands of Drokka youth had died and never returned to their families. Interestingly enough, the number of Drokka casualties had grown by such horrific numbers as a result of The War of the Ghast that their population had begun to decline. Although it had peaked at more than 500,000 when Hacktor’s war first began, upon the most recent census, the scribes’ count showed only 450,000 Drokka upon Mittengarten.
The impending collapse of their society could be felt most acutely among the common people—the miners, the blacksmiths, the farmers, and families who had lived their lives within the Rhokki mountains. The war that Hacktor had waged, driven by the Kon-Herr’s pride and the twisted manipulations of the shadowy elites who played both sides, had in turn drained the common people of their lifeblood. The suffering of the Drokka now seeped into every corner of every kingdom of the mountains like a sickness, spreading from the mines to the taverns, and from the markets to the darkest caves of the mountains.
The ‘Shroom Yard tavern that commanded the main drag of the capital was packed as usual, but not with laughter or song anymore. The air was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, the heavy smoke of poor-quality pipe-weed, and the tang of stale ale. The Drokka men and women who filled the room sat hunched over their mugs, their faces drawn with fatigue and despair was was often the case nowadays. They spoke in low voices, sharing rumors of the latest defeats on the battlefield, the rising taxes, the conscription orders that took their sons to fight in wars they didn’t understand.
A blacksmith with soot still clinging to his skin sat at the bar, his eyes red with exhaustion. His tools lay neglected back in his forge—there was no demand for his work anymore. In spite of the never-ending war, the army’s coffers had supposedly run dry, and the orders for weapons had ceased. Now, the only trade left was in basic survival.
“Another tax,” he muttered into his mug. “They’re takin’ what little we have left. And for what? For Hacktor’s folly? For his endless wars?”
A miner sitting nearby spat on the floor. “It’s not just the war, friend. The priests say it’s the gods’ will, but I say it’s their pockets they’re fillin’. They sit in their temples, fat and safe, while we starve in the caves.”
The men around him nodded in agreement, muttering curses under their breath. The tavern owner, a stout woman with thinning hair named Keldara, approached them cautiously, her eyes darting toward the door. She leaned in close, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Careful what you say, lads. The Coinmaster’s got ears everywhere. Speak too loud, and you’ll find yourself even worse off.”
The blacksmith scoffed but said nothing more. He had heard the stories—those who spoke out against the crown often disappeared, only to reappear later in chains or not at all.
Elsewhere – deep in the mountains, where the poorest of the Drokka lived, the suffering was just as bad as the city, if not worse. The once-prosperous mines had become pits of misery, their resources mostly untapped due to lack of workers. The stone caves that lined the Rhokki’s were now homes for the desperate, their walls cold and damp, the air thick with the sound of coughing children and hungry wails.
In one such cave, a family huddled around a meager fire. Unable to afford blackwood, they had to rely on twice-used coal. The father, a former miner, sat with his head in his hands. His wife, pale and gaunt, tried to quiet the baby in her arms, though there was little she could do—the child was starving, and there was no food left to give. The war had taken everything from them—first their three sons for battle, then the father’s job, their finances, and at last their hope.
“I don’t know how much longer we can survive this,” the haggard Drokka whispered to his wife, his voice hollow.
She looked at him with haunted eyes. “We pray. That’s all we can do now.”
“But where are the gods?” he asked bitterly. “Where is Rhokki, who was supposed to protect us? All we’ve had is silence.”
Silence. The word echoed through the cold cave. It was the silence of abandoned promises, of prayers unanswered, of gods who had turned their backs on their people.
In the main temple at Rhokki Pass, a meager crowd of the faithful had gathered before a massive stone altar adorned with symbols of the ancient gods. Malchoir Der Naves, draped in his ceremonial robes, stood at the front, addressing the weary, desperate Drokka who had come seeking solace.
For all the plight of the poor, the temple was still grand – it’s wealth on proud display. The people, hungry and broken, clung to the priests’ words, desperate for anything to save them.
“Brothers and sisters of Rhokki,” Malchoir’s voice cried out, “though we walk through the caves of darkness, we must not lose faith. The gods test us, but they have not forsaken us. True friends of Rhokki and Kalypzo remain steadfast in our devotion to the ancient ways, and through faith, we shall overcome.”
The cleric was a secret member of The Priory of the Myz and as such he’d been involved in making decisions that had directly resulted in the plight of the people he was addressing. Yet, like all elites, he cared little for the fate of the rabble. They were but cogs in the machine. Today Malchoir’s task was the grease those cogs with false hope. As such he raised his hands, his eyes half-closed as though in deep communion with the gods. “The gods see your suffering,” Malchior intoned, his voice low and melodic. “They hear your prayers. But we must prove ourselves worthy of their blessings. The trials we face are but a crucible, and through this fire, we will be purified. Trust in the will of Rhokki.”
The crowd murmured in agreement, some bowing their heads in prayer, others reaching out toward the priests who walked through the crowd as if by touching them, they could absorb some of their blessings.
Malchoir too moved among the people, blessing the children, offering words of comfort to the widows and orphans. To the Drokka, the faith was a salve for their wounds, a balm for the hopelessness that threatened to consume them. They had nothing left but their gods—and so they clung to them, even as the world around them crumbled.
But Malchoir knew the truth—the gods were silent, but as long as the people believed, as long as they held to the faith, those in power would prosper.
And so it was that the stench of death hung over Rhokki Pass like a pall. Everywhere I looked with The Eye, there were reminders of the cost of Hacktor’s war—the cost of my war, really, but let’s not get carried away.
The fact is that thousands of Drokka were dead. Entire families shattered. The kingdom had begun to wither, and Hacktor still didn’t even realize how deep the rot went. His precious kingdom of iron and stone was crumbling from within, and no amount of drinking would wash that away.
As Hacktor stood on the precipice of his kingdom’s ruin, the pieces were falling into place. Yes, the perfect storm brewing – Hacktor, broken and defeated, he’d returned home to a crumbling kingdom, an estranged wife, and a dying people. The tension between him and Hecla, the loss of his children, the decline of the Drokka—it all played right into my hands. I could feel the game tightening, the noose closing around Hacktor’s neck.
His longed for war was far from over, and yet the real battle of his life hadn’t even begun.
I couldn’t help but laugh – Azazel, old boy, this is going to be fun!
The Apocrypha of Azazel 