Part XVII: The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul
Chapter 4: Through Kel-de-Kaba
Timeline: AO 323
The Drokka Byways, a series of ancient roads cut into the very bones of the earth, wound their way south like the veins of some great, forgotten beast. Hacktor rode ahead on his favorite war pony, a fierce beast named Skraeth, bred for war and trained for slaughter yet serving a different role on this trip. The horse’s dark, coal-black hide shimmered in the dim light of the passage, its breath misting in the cool air as hooves clattered against the old stone. Hacktor looked every bit the warrior king, armor gleaming with the sigils of his house, his black hair tied back as he rode. He has a king of fire, fury, and pride.
Behind him, Hecla rode in a royal carriage pulled by four sturdy horses, their manes braided in the fashion of the Drokka nobility. The carriage itself was a gilded fortress on wheels, the finest that wealth and influence could build. Inside, Hecla sat in her regalia, her mind, as always, working, worrying, wondering.
Their entourage stretched down the Byway, armored knights, banners flying high with the sigil of their house—The Ghast of Derkillez. Attendants and a few merchants followed in tow, carts piled high with supplies, food, and various wares all bound for the southern provinces. The procession was a tiny moving city, an exhibition of wealth and power, meant to remind anyone who saw it just who ruled these lands.
But even the mighty must stop to rest.
As dusk approached one evening, they reached another wayfarers’ village, tucked into the caves like a forgotten relic. The tavern, Boulder’s Belly, was a low, squat building of stone and timber. It stood in the heart of the village, a place where travelers sought food, drink, and momentary reprieve from the road. It was modest—by royal standards—but tonight, it would serve.
As the royal procession came to a halt in what served for the village square, the locals—humble, dirt-streaked villagers and merchants—gathered to watch in awe. Hacktor dismounted Skraeth, his powerful frame towering over the smaller commoners, while Hecla stepped gracefully from her carriage, her beautiful regal presence immediately causing awe among the crowd.
The innkeeper, a stout Drokka man named Karl Fungbean, scurried out to greet them, his wife, Gerda, just behind him, wringing her hands nervously on her apron.
“Y-Your Majesties, welcome!” Karl stammered, bowing deeply, his beard brushing the ground. “It is the highest honor—uh—the greatest privilege—uh—for us to have you here, at The Boulder’s Belly. A humble place, but at your service.”
Hacktor grunted in response, his eyes scanning the inn’s exterior—old, but sturdy, much like the Drokka themselves. He clasped Karl on the shoulder, the force of it making the innkeeper nearly stumble. “We’ll take food, ale, rooms for the night for those you can accommodate, and a place in the bard for the rest,” he growled, his voice rough as gravel. “See to it.”
“Of course, Your Grace!” Karl straightened up, his face flushed. “We will make ready at once.” And he instructed the servants to see to the horses and entourage.
Those members of the caravan who couldn’t get rooms at the Inn went through the hamlet to see if they could find a room or would need to camp elsewhere. Meanwhile, inside the tavern, the main room soon bustled with nervous energy. The few patrons already there were mostly travelers and merchants, they rose to their feet when the royal couple entered, bowing their heads in respect. Whispers filled the air as Hacktor and Hecla took their places at the head of the long table, goblets of ale soon set before them.
But not everyone shared in the admiration.
At the far end of the tavern, in a shadowed corner, sat a small Drokka alone, nursing a drink. His name was Sivven and, unlike the others, he neither rose nor bowed at the royals entrance. His eyes cold and calculating, he was a minor merchant with little to lose and even less to care about. Unimpressed by titles and crowns, the dwarf was embittered by life’s harshness. He watched the royals with a sneer that played at the edges of his mouth.
It didn’t take long for the tension to mount.
Karl did his best to provide for his guests and though Hecla and Hacktor dined in relative silence, the atmosphere around them grew more convivial. The innkeep, eager to please, plied the royals with his finest meats, and he made sure pitchers of his best dark ale flowed freely.
The other patrons relaxed and enjoyed this unexpected event – stealing glances at their rulers and smiling whenever they were lucky enough to catch an eye.
Everyone was happy – except Sivven.
At first, the disgruntled dwarf’s comments were barely audible, muttered under his breath. “Royalty… what good is a crown when it sits on the head of a Drokka too soft to wear it?” He scoffed, loud enough for the table near him to hear.
Hacktor’s ears twitched, his grip tightening on the hilt of his dagger, but Hecla’s cool hand rested on his wrist. “Let it go,” she whispered, her voice low but firm. “He’s beneath your notice.”
Hacktor exhaled sharply but said nothing, his jaw clenched tight and he shoved a piece of mutton in his mouth.
But Sivven wasn’t done.
During a quiet moment, Sivven barked out, “Funny thing about Kon-Herrs, they can’t keep their kingdom in order. Or their children.” His eyes flicked toward Hacktor, a cruel smile creeping onto his face. “Word has it, your little prince—Alf, was it? It taking quite a tour of the cathedral’s back rooms.”
Karl’s mouth dropped open, his wide-eyed wife gasped along with others in the crowd, and a chuckle or two were quickly silenced. But one thing was for sure – Sivven’s dirty insult hit its mark.
Hacktor was on his feet in a flash, overturning his chair as he raced across the room, his hand gripping his dagger like a man possessed. He didn’t speak, didn’t shout. There was no grand proclamation of justice.
Only swift, brutal action.
Sivven was sure that the king he’d just insulted would be all bark and no bite – but in that he was mistaken. In surge of violence, Hacktor plunged his dagger deep into the foul-mouthed dwarf’s throat. Blood sprayed across the table, splattering the faces of the horrified patrons. Sivven’s eyes went wide with shock, gurgling as he choked on his own blood before collapsing forward onto his table.
The tavern fell into stunned silence.
Hecla stood slowly, her face a mask of cold fury. “You couldn’t control yourself, could you?” she hissed at Hacktor, her voice low but laced with venom. “In front of everyone?”
Hacktor wiped the blood from his blade, his chest heaving with adrenaline. “Insults will never stand. ”
“You’re the Kon-Herr,” Hecla snapped. “Name calling from the rabble goes with the territory. Who cares what this,” and here she waved her hands around the patrons, “who cares what any of these say. They are but trash anyway.”
The innkeeper, Karl, stood frozen, horror etched on his face at the king’s act which had sullied his establishment. His wife, Gerda, had tears in her eyes at the queen’s insult. As servants were already busy cleaning up the mess that was formerly Sivven, the other guests, once filled with awe, now stared at Hacktor with a mixture of fear and disgust.
Needless to say the night the king and queen spent at The Boulder’s Belly was one they would have rather forgotten.
Days later, the city of Kel-De-Kaba soon came into view as the Drokka Byways opened to the massive cave system that made up this region. To the untrained eye, it would seem an imposing bastion of power, the heart of military strength in the Drokka kingdom. But to me, it was something more—an intricate web of ambition, deceit, and bloodlust, woven by the ever-greedy Busz clan. The city reeked of their machinations, their hunger for power disguised beneath the banner of national pride.
I’ve written before how Kel-De-Kaba had been founded centuries ago by the Busz clan, one of the early powers of the Drokka race. Their history was marked by cunning, brutality, and the ability to profit from bloodshed. They were the architects of the Siq, that gateway to the west that until recently was a source of pride to their people. And yet, like all things touched by greed, they were all too happy to conspire with the Priory of the Myz to bring it down when doing so would serve their purpose – which in this case was the impetus to get rid of Kon-Herr Baldur and provide an excuse for another war.
As with all prior wars, the Busz family made their fortune in the process, enabling Hacktor’s war and lining their coffers again. War was always good for business – their business – for the Busz’ controlled the flow of arms and all the secret deals that kept the war machine grinding. Kel-del-Kaba was thus built on the backs of soldiers, mercenaries, and blacksmiths—every brick soaked in the blood of those sent to die in the endless wars that Busz conspired with the elites’ across the continent to perpetuate.
Kel-De-Kaba was the family’s crown jewel, the military capital of the kingdom, but also place where Drokka nationalism thrived. The streets teemed with warriors as banners of war fluttering proudly in mountain air. Weapons of every kind were forged here, from the finest swords to the deadliest siege engines. It was a place where violence wasn’t just a necessity—it was a way of life.
The Skemerz, Vendals, and Strongbow were all families that bent the knee to the Busz clan – their fortunes tied to the success of the military machine. Such was the case for the Derkillez clan as well – for Hacktor’s fathers also traced their lineage back through this mighty clan.
As the royal entourage crossed the final rise and approached the gates of Kel-De-Kaba, Hacktor, astride his war pony, surveyed the city with a grim smile. This was his kind of place—a fortress of power, strength, and battle. His chest swelled with pride as his caraven entered, the sound of the city’s military clamor greeting him like the roar of an old friend.
The city echoed with the clanging of hammers on anvils, the scent of smelted iron thick in the air. Hacktor understand that every Drokka, Drokkina, and child knew their role here—whether as soldiers, weapon-makers, or supporters of the military. Nationalistic pride was at its peak in Kel-De-Kaba, and the faith in the gods, especially the war god Rhokki, was strongest here. To be Drokka was to be a warrior, and to be a warrior was to be righteous.
Hacktor was at home here. The clang of iron, the rhythmic beating of war drums, the scent of sweat and steel—it was the pulse of war, and it sang to him. He dismounted as they passed under the towering iron gates, his hand running along the edge of his battle axe. This was where he felt alive, where he could be the warrior-king he believed himself to be. A man destined for war, a man of fire.
“Home,” Hacktor muttered under his breath as his gaze swept across the battlements.
This place was a testament to his might, a reflection of what he aspired to become. The respect of the soldiers lining the streets, the salutes, the bowed heads—all of it fed his ego, made him stand taller.
But for Hecla, the emotions were far more complicated.
She rode in her royal carriage, peeking out from behind the silk curtains. Her eyes followed the same streets, the same soldiers, but her thoughts were darker, more bitter. She knew the truth. This place—the weapons, the soldiers, the wars—it was the reason her husband was so distant, so unreachable. War consumed him. It fueled him and tore him away from her.
As they passed the forges, where blacksmiths hammered out swords and spears in rhythmic unison, her hand tightened into a fist. This city, this life of violence and bloodshed—it was what stood between them.
Yet, at the same time, she felt safe here. War had brought her power, and in Kel-De-Kaba, she was untouchable. Even in her bitterness, she knew the value of the city and the pride of the Drokka who worshipped the flames of battle.
“I hate it,” she whispered to herself, just loud enough for the royal guard beside her to hear. “But I need it.”
They soon passed by great factories and forges, their chimneys leading up through the mountain to eventually belch black smoke into the far away sky somewhere on the surface above them. Everywhere they looked looked, weapons were being made—pikes, maces, war hammers. The clamor of construction filled the air as siege engines were assembled piece by piece. Kel-De-Kaba was not a city—it was a machine, built to grind the bones of its enemies into dust.
The streets were patrolled by legions of soldiers, their armor clinking with every step, their eyes sharp, as if always ready for battle. Military banners flew high above every building, and even the taverns were filled with mercenaries and warriors, all speaking in hushed tones of their next campaigns.
War wasn’t just business—it was the lifeblood of Kel-De-Kaba. From the humblest farmer to the wealthiest noble, every soul in the city played their part. Some forged the weapons, others wielded them, but all bled for the same cause—Drokka supremacy.
As the entourage made their way to the central citadel, Hacktor’s mood shifted. Besides meeting with the generals to discuss the upcoming war, the king was also hoping to meet with the legendary weapons master Hef Fastuz to perhaps glean some further insights from the dwarf who’d created The Ghast for him – hoping that Hef might know a secret that could unlock the entire war.
Hacktor knew that the famous blacksmith was well advanced in years and that he no longer practiced his craft. He’d also heard that Hef no longer took visitors, but he assumed that didn’t apply to him. Yet just to make sure, the king had sent word ahead with a scout days prior, hoping—no, expecting—that Hef would be honored to see him, however when his entourage arrived at their lodgings a messenger was waiting with an answer that surprised him.
“Hef will see no one,” the attendant informed Hacktor, bowing his head nervously, as if afraid of the king’s reaction. “He lives alone now, deep within the mountains. He has… no interest in visitors.”
Hacktor pride simmered dangerously close to the surface. “He dares refuse me?” Hacktor’s voice was a low growl. “The gods chose him to serve me!”
Hecla, who had remained silent until now, gave him a sharp look. “Let it go, Hacktor. You can’t force him out of his seclusion. He’s an old Drokka, tired and broken. Leave him to his solitude.”
But Hacktor’s eyes burned with fury. He felt betrayed, dismissed. “This city… this place was built on war. And he turns his back on it?”
I couldn’t help but smile as I watched the tension between them grow. Kel-De-Kaba was where Hacktor thrived, but it was also the place that would tear him apart—War, after all, consumes everything. Especially kings.
Kel-de-Kaba was the first man stop on the way south to Chaldea. Yet it was more than just a place to spend a night. Hacktor was hoping to come up with a plan of attack for this season’s war campaign and he was eager to meet with the best military minds of the era who lived here.
Even still, the king was well aware that Kel-de-Kaba was also a hornet’s nest of scheming minds. Hacktor knew that the Busz clan, his clan, was a study in ambition and deception. Chaney Busz, the elder of the clan, was no exception. Most people in the kingdom were under the impression that Hacktor had murdered Chaney along with countless other courtiers when the Kon-Herr had purged the kingdom of it’s elites in order to solidify his own power. Yet Hacktor had secretly chosen to spare Chaney – partly because he was from the same clan and perhaps believing the old man could be an ally. As a condition of sparing his life, the wizened dwarf was forced to agree to reside in seclusion at his palatial estate in Kel-de-Kaba and was required to break all ties with the Rukstinz, The Priory of the Myz, and all of arms of the shadowy elites. Although Chaney agreed to Hacktor’s conditions in order to save his skin, he secretly broke every promise to the king as soon as he was free.
As Hacktor entered the war room, I watched through The Eye – this was too good to miss. The tension in the room was palpable, a sharp contrast to the bluster of the military banners hanging along the stone walls. The air smelled of steel and sweat, of old men clinging to power and younger ones eager to take it.
Hacktor’s booted steps echoed as he approached the massive stone table, where the elder Chaney Busz sat surrounded by the top generals of the city. Hacktor’s eyes flicked across the room—he knew he was in the lion’s den, though whether he would admit it was another matter.
Chaney used his staff and stood slowly to greet Hacktor, his weathered face creased into a thin smile. His hands, knotted with age, gripped his staff as though he needed it to remain upright, yet his eyes still gleamed with the sharp cunning that had allowed him to survive the purges.
“King Hacktor,” Chaney said, using the common language title for the ruler, his voice a rasp, yet filled with the self-assurance of someone who had never truly bent the knee. “It’s been too long.”
Hacktor grunted, giving only the briefest nod in response and overlooking the insult – at least for now. He took his seat, letting his presence fill the room. Around the table, the generals shifted uncomfortably, each acutely aware of the delicate dance between Hacktor and Chaney. None dared to speak first.
“You look well, Chaney,” Hacktor said, his tone flat but tinged with something darker. “I trust you’ve been keeping yourself… busy.”
For a brief moment, Chaney’s smile faltered. “As much as an old Drokka can, of course,” he replied, his voice silkier now, masking the tension. “Kel-de-Kaba is my sole sanctuary, as we agreed. I’ve been quite content with the quiet.”
Although Hacktor could only guess at Chaney’s deceptions, I knew the whole truth—the scheming oldster had done anything but remain quiet. He still pulled strings with the Rukstinz, still conspired with the Priory of the Myz, and had cast his tentacles even to Mersia by now. Hacktor must have suspected it, yet for reasons known only to his pride, he allowed this meeting to take place. The generals were mere pawns in a larger game between these two men, and they all knew it.
“Let’s skip the pleasantries,” Hacktor said, leaning and casting a shadow across the map of Mittengarten spread out before them. “We need answers. Why is this war dragging on? We’ve taken Antarez, Razzyn, and Oz, but still, the fight drags on. Why haven’t we completely crushed the Derkka? I gave you the Ghast—what more do you need?”
There was silence for a moment, the generals exchanging glances, none eager to speak first. Finally, Herr Gilber Thunn cleared his throat, his face grim. “The Myz are more powerful than we anticipated, Kon-Herr. The Derkka are b–“
“—are cowards,” Hacktor cut in, slamming his fist down on the table, rattling the mugs of ale. “The Derkka are weak! We’ve slaughtered them by the thousand! And yet here we sit, no closer to victory than when we started.”
“Perhaps that’s the problem, Kon-Herr,” Balthuz Hamwise said quietly, his deep slow and rumbling. “We’ve been focused on slaughtering the Derkka when our real enemy is perhaps now the Myz.”
Hacktor’s jaw clenched. He hated when they spoke of the Myz like they were invincible. Yes, the giant knights were a nuisance, but The Ghast could be killed just like anyone else.
“And what would you suggest?” Hacktor growled. “We abandon the war and hunt Myz through the forests like animals?”
Balthuz held Hacktor’s gaze, unflinching. “No, Kon-Herr. But we must acknowledge that until we deal with the Myz, this war will never end.”
Hacktor leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. The frustration was boiling over, but deep down, he knew they were right, but he wasn’t ready to admit that just yet.
It was thus rather unfortunate when the new Kon-Herr of Kel-de-Kaba, young Rodrik Vendal – the son of Hacktor’s old friend Fredrik – said what Hacktor was thinking. “Kon-Herr Hacktor, my lord, can we agree that the coming of the Myz has change the tide? With great effort we overcome them, yet the price is heavy – and more seem to come every year. To eliminate them entirely would take years, if not decades.”
“And do we have years?” Hacktor snapped. He hadn’t wanted to disrespect Rodrik – he’d known him since birth and liked him, yet today wasn’t the day for the king to control this emotions. “What’s your suggestion? Would your father agree?”
Rodrik’s face flushed, but he did not respond. Hacktor’s gaze swept across the table. “Marching on Babel could end it,” he said, his voice daring someone to challenge him. “We destroy their capital, cut off the head of the snake.”
“But what of Ramos and Mersia?” Chaney interjected, his voice calm, but with an edge that suggested he was enjoying Hacktor’s frustration. “The Derkka now have alliances with both. If we march on Babel, we risk drawing them into the war. Can we afford to fight on three fronts?”
Hacktor’s jaw clenched. The generals shifted uncomfortably, knowing the truth of Chaney’s words but unwilling to voice it. Ramos and Mersia were wild cards—powerful enough to tip the scales, should they decide to join the Derkka cause.
“But what of the Spirit’s prophecy?” Balthuz interjected. “The Spirit promised victory. Can we but persist?
The other generals shifted uncomfortably. None of them dared question the Spirit, and yet, the prophecy seemed as elusive as victory itself.
“It’s not for us to question the Spirit,” Rodrick said cautiously, his eyes flicking to Hacktor, trying to get back in his good graces.
“But we are at a crossroads. ” Herr Thunn surmised. “We cannot simply rely on prophecy alone. We do need action.”
Hacktor’s fingers drummed on the table, his mind racing. Action. That was always the answer, wasn’t it? But what action? Every plan they had made had crumbled before it reached the final goal. Every battle they fought bled more of his men, more of his resources.
“There must be something we’re missing,” Hacktor muttered, half to himself. “Some way to break the stalemate. What else can you think of?”
Another general, Kordak Gumm, spoke up, his voice filled with hesitation. “We’ve also received reports from Kagor, sire. The god Gwar—”
“Fool’s errand,” Hacktor cut him off, his hand slamming onto the table. “How could we ever cross the Stormy Seas? We fight this war on Mittengarten, not on the whims of deities.”
I chuckled to myself at his arrogance. Mortals, always so eager to fight battles they can’t win, and so quick to dismiss the forces beyond their comprehension. Meanwhile, Chaney’s smile returned, though this time it was more pronounced, a sign of his belief that he was in control of this situation. “If I may, King Hacktor,” he said, leaning forward slightly, “there is also the matter of Shedu Mazai. You’ve conquered much of the Derkka lands, but without dealing with him in Kra, the war will never truly be over.”
Hacktor’s eyes narrowed. “Shedu Mazai,” he spat, my name like poison on his tongue. “The fiend is out of reach. If we can’t even take Babel or defeat the lowly goblins, how could we ever hope meet with The God of Death in The Cauldron? I need realistic answers, not fairy tales!”
The generals exchanged more uneasy glances, none wanting to speak the obvious—that without the help of the gods on their side, their victories would remain incomplete.
Chaney, of course, knew this. He had orchestrated this entire conversation to steer it in this direction. “Then perhaps we should consider… alternatives,” Chaney said, his voice oily, as if he knew something they didn’t. “There are… methods, shall we say, to weaken even the likes of our enemies. I’ve heard whispers that the Priory—”
Hacktor’s fist came down on the table, silencing Chaney instantly. “I will not hear talk of the Priory. Not in my presence.”
The tension in the room became unbearable. Even I, watching from the ethereal shadows, could feel the ripple of unease that spread among the generals. Chaney, for all his cunning, had overplayed his hand.
Chaney’s expression hardened, but he said nothing. The room fell into a cold, uncomfortable silence. Hacktor had made his stance clear, but nothing had been resolved. The war, the Myz warriors, Babel, Ramos, Mersia—none of it was closer to being solved. The generals exchanged quiet glances, but no one dared to challenge Hacktor further.
Hacktor stood abruptly, his chair scraping across the stone floor. “This war will be won the way wars have always been won—through strength. We don’t need conspiracies. We need action. None of you have told me anything I didn’t already know. Therefore I will lead the armies to Babel if I must, but I will not become a puppet to old men whispering in shadows.”
With a sharp motion, Hacktor turned on his heel and left the room, his cape sweeping behind him. His frustration was palpable, and I could feel the fire of his anger as he stormed down the halls of Kel-de-Kaba. Chaney, meanwhile, sat back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with the knowledge that while Hacktor had left victorious in the moment, the war was far from over—and Chaney’s influence had not been diminished.
As Hacktor exited the room, I could sense the fury in his heart. He had hoped for unity, for a clear strategy, but instead, he had found only the same tired politics that had plagued the Drokka for centuries. He needed better answers – and he hoped the rest of the journey to see Grak would provide them.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 