Part XVII: The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul
Chapter 6: Keeper of the Kroniklz
Timeline: AO323
By the time the royal family arrived in Chaldea, Hacktor found himself eager to meet with Grak, for the generals of Kel-de-Kaba had been no help at all, and his time in Iztak had only opened old wounds. The king was thus frustrated beyond measure. Nobody had any answers as to why it was taking so long to cleanse Mittengarten of the Derkka, how to deal with the new Myz threat, and why, even with the Ghast, victory seemed farther away than ever – despite the prophecy from The Spirit of The Well of Wyzdom.
The vast caravan that had initially accompanied the royals on their journey south had continually split off during the journey through The Byways – as merchants and fellow travelers reached their destinations along the way or else took new byways to other realms within and without the mountains. The party that remained with Hacktor and Hecla all the way to Chaldea was thus quite small by the time they arrived – for very few ever had a reason to visit the strange kingdom that was Chaldea.
A world unto itself, Chaldea was hidden deep within the spine of the Rhokki Mountains, and it bore little resemblance to the other regions of the Drokka people. Hacktor and Hecla had visited many parts of their kingdom during their reign, but none were as strange as this one – a place that neither had been before. As they left The Byways and made their final approach to Chaldea, they navigated a steep descent through jagged caverns.
Once within the city’s cave system, the architecture of Chaldea opened up to became more imposing. Massive stone archways loomed overhead, inscribed with runes that predated the current age. Yet as they moved further in to the area, the wayfares began to constrict and they found themselves funneled into smaller streets. It became quickly clear that Chaldea had been constructed with function over form, the sole purpose being to house knowledge. The smaller tunnels twisted and turned at sharp angles, a labyrinth of dim passageways that seemed to lead nowhere and everywhere all at once. Every few steps, the walls bore alcoves carved with intricate symbols, their meaning long lost, but a silent reminder of the history buried within these halls. It was as if the mountain itself had been hollowed out and transformed into a giant library, with every wall, ceiling, and floor lined with tomes, scrolls, and ancient manuscripts. Candles flickered in iron sconces, casting long shadows that seemed to dance and flicker, alive with the secrets they held.
Hacktor moved through it all with growing irritation. He wanted to meet with the scribe as quickly as possible and then leave because here, in this eerie, silent maze of scrolls and stone, he felt caged – smothered by the weight of centuries of knowledge he neither understood nor valued.
“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled, his voice laced with impatience. “I have no desire to spend more time in this tomb than necessary.”
“Patience, husband.” Hecla rode a pony beside her husband. “Grak may hold the key you need to ending the war. Yet she too couldn’t hide the unease that crept into her eyes. Chaldea was foreign to them both, a place where the usual rules didn’t apply. It was a city that had abandoned life in pursuit of something far more elusive—truth. And the truth, Hecla thought bitterly, was something she had learned could be bent and twisted as easily as the shadows moved.
Hacktor snorted, unconvinced. The scribes of Chaldea had long been a mystery to him. They were so far removed from the world above that they seemed like ghosts—pale, gaunt creatures who drifted through life, their eyes always fixed on ancient texts, their hands stained with ink and dust. They lived for knowledge, not for life, and the sight of them made Hacktor’s skin crawl. Yet, he needed them, or rather, needed the information they possessed.
Finally, they reached the central hall—a massive chamber where the scribes gathered. This was The Library of Chaldea – that famous repository that housed not just every edition of the voluminous Drokka Kroniklz, and all the original works of the great Snorri Sturleson (including, of course, the epic Nebulungillgalad), but also uncounted scrolls and tomes from throughout TerrVerde. Books and parchments filled the massive hall for as far as the eye could see. Rows upon rows of stone benches stretched onward, each one piled high with tomes and scrolls. Great stone pillars rose from the ground, spiraling upwards into the vaulted ceiling where more shelves had been carved into the rock itself.
The sight did little but to increase the king’s unease – having never been one for bookish wisdom, Chaldea made him nervous – for he was afraid that what he might learn this day might not be what he wanted to hear. But worse than all the books was the sights of scribes themselves – seeing so many of them in the city was like being in another world. Most of them were frail, almost skeletal beneath their simple brown robes – their skin as pale as marble, their eyes sunken from decades spent in the dim light of their chambers. They moved slowly, methodically, as though every action, every turn of the page, required their full concentration. Most of them didn’t even look up when he and Hecla entered the library for they were too engrossed in their endless pursuit of knowledge to acknowledge their presence.
“This is madness,” Hacktor muttered under his breath. “I came here for answers, not to be ignored by a bunch of walking corpses.”
Hecla placed a hand on his arm, her touch calming, but even she couldn’t hide the tension in her voice. “They live in their own world, Hacktor. But they hold the knowledge we need.”
Hacktor bit back a retort, his eyes narrowing as they made their way towards the back of the hall, to the place Grak’s instructions bade them come. As they stood before the door to an unmarked room, Hacktor turned to Hecla. “You know I must do this alone, but rest assured I want this over with quickly. I’ll get what we came for, then we leave this city and return home!”
Hecla nodded, her expression somber. “I’m sure it will work out. I’ll be here waiting. Good luck.”
Hacktor stepped into a small room, with the faint rustling of parchment and the scent of old books filling the air, and there, seated among a mountain of scrolls, was Grak, his pale eyes gleaming within the husk of his ancient face.
There was of course no one else in the room – for Grak had secured this most private alcove to ensure their privacy — a requirement proposed by the scribe.
Grak was once the loyal scribe Hacktor’s father Baldur. After Baldur’s death, Grak had briefly stayed on to help Hacktor during his transition to the throne, but quickly ‘retired’ to Chaldea to live out the remainder of his days in study and solitude. Hacktor hadn’t seen the dwarf in nearly two decades and the sight of the scribe took him by such surprise that he forgot his agitation. My god, the Drokka looks like a bag of bones! His skin is like the parchment of these scrolls.
And indeed it was, for Grak, already an old man by the time Baldur rose to power, was now well past his fifteenth decade on Mittengarten. ‘Paper thin’ described more than just his yellowed skin, for he was naught but a skeleton covered with a dried out psoriatic husk. Completely bald, Grak’s face was so hallowed out his visage was nigh terrifying to Hacktor and it took the king great effort to focus on more than just the scribe’s appearance. [Although I actually found Grak quite beautiful. He was almost like looking in the mirror at myself].
Grak broke the ice, “Great Kon-Herr, you are here because you seek answers about The Derkka.” Dressed in the simple course browns of his guild, the old man didn’t rise to meet his king and instead remained seated in a small wooden chair, his hands concealed in the sleeves of his robes.
Hacktor overlooked Grak’s insult – grateful that the old dwarf hadn’t tried to stand up, afraid he might die in the effort. Instead, the king took a seat in the only other chair in the alcove, “How did you know?”
“Wisdom comes with the job, my lord.” The skin on the scribe’s face literally cracked as he attempted a forced smile.
Having talked with Hecla on the journey here, Hacktor had a plan for how to make the most of this meeting by tapping into Grak’s immense knowledge. “I need to understand the Derkka. Where did they come from? Why are they here on Mittengarten in the first place?”
Grak pulled his arms apart, revealing his hands – in one he held a small clay cup, which he now handed over to the king, “It’s from The Chasm – drink.”
[Chaldea’s Chasm was famous for its supposed healing and life-extending properties. Rumor had it that Grak drank from the Chasm’s spring every day and this was the reason for his long life. Monty Redstone had long ago capitalized on this ‘fact’ and had an army of men selling Chaldea Chasm Water throughout the eight kingdoms for the last decade. Fortunately for the Coinmaster, the people bought into Monty’s pitch and the product increased his wealth. Unfortunately for the purchasers the claims about the Chasm being a Fountain of Youth were entirely false].
Hacktor tried to look into the cup, but the liquid was so clear that he couldn’t tell anything was in there. It didn’t help that the alcove was dark and that all the dust floating around the library cast a haze over everything. Yet not one to back down from a challenge, the king tipped the cup back and downed the shot – and immediately Hacktor lost all sense of time and place…
Whether he was conscious or not, Hacktor couldn’t say, and later he didn’t even remember being in the room with Grak. But one thing he did recall, one thing he would never forget, was the sound of Grak’s voice – it became deep, rich, and full… of knowledge
Grak began, “The Kroniklz tell us that In The Time Before Time, He Who Has No Name created our world Mittengarten and gave it to his son Rhokii. Mittengarten was a planet blooming with life, but Rhokii had no people to dwell in it — so he spawned The Drrukka — a race fashioned in his own image.”
[Warning – none of this is true. It’s yet again more religious puffery masking itself in dogma pretending to be an accurate history. I’d like to say that I hope that you can see through these fairy tales, but since you haven’t been able to do that with any of your modern religions, I’m not holding my breath that you’ll be able to do it with this ancient religion either].
“You mean ‘The Drokka,’ right?” Hacktor heard his own voice interrupt.
“No, Hacktor, The Drrukka. They were our ancestors.” Grak corrected. “The Drrukka lived within the bowels of Mittengarten before the Drokka. It was our lord Rhokii that promised them endless peace and prosperity if only they would but follow one rule: they were never to venture into The World Above.”
“Yes, The Rule. I’ve heard of it. A forgotten tradition.”
“Is it? Well, for time uncounted, The Drrukka obeyed The Lord’s command. Millennia passed while they enjoyed their promised peace, living in prosperity beneath the mountains. But then one day, the legends say that while Rhokii was away, his rival Shedu Mazai secretly appeared at the Well of Wyzdom, tempting The Drrukka with knowledge about The World Above – enticing them with riches beyond their imagination if only they would trust him and venture Outside.”
“He spoke of The Blackwoods?”
“That I cannot say. But what we do know is that by this time the Drrukka population had grown without measure and the caves alone could no longer sustain them. Shedu Mazai’s advice appeared to be a timely solution; some of the Drrukka disobeyed The Rule and followed Shedu Mazai to The World Above. So marked the beginning of The First Age.”
“What happened to them?”
“Those Drrukka left behind thought they would never hear from the rule breakers again, but they were proved wrong, for members of the group that had ventured Outside eventually returned – telling strange tales of a vast new world that was indeed filled with the riches Shedu Mazai had promised!”
“To the bold, go the spoils.”
“Although more Drrukka followed the rule breakers, most chose to remain in the caves — not wanting to incur the wrath of Rhokii. Yet contrary to expectations, the rule breakers did not appear to suffer any ill-effects for disobeying. In fact, they quickly prospered – capitalizing on the chance to trade their own abundant resources with their home-bound brothers. Centuries passed and the Outsiders eventually found themselves wealthy beyond compare; and more importantly, they had found a nearly limitless world to populate.”
“Interesting, but what does all this have to do with The Derkka?”
“Don’t you understand, my lord? The Drrukka race was fractured by Shedu Mazai’s treachery — with the mountain people evolving into The Drokka, and the rule-breakers into The Derkka.”
“Impossible! Are you really trying to tell me that The Drokka dwarfs and The Derkka goblins come from the same ancestors?”
“So say The Kronilz.”
“But…” The king struggled. “It doesn’t make any sense – our races look nothing alike. We Drokka are short and squat, yet I’ve never seen a Derk shorter than a pony. Our people have milk-white complexions, well-oiled beards, and broad, stout bodies; they are ruddy as potatoes or green as grass, with bloated and flabby bodies, and not a one can grow a decent beard.” Gaining confidence in his argument, Hacktor added “As for Garrick The Golden, if he even exists, legends say he’s the ugliest of all: with long hair the color of straw, brown skin, and the lithe frame of a lady. Tell me what Drokkina would have him in her bedroom? Ha, they’d laugh him away!”
“The answer to your question is the flowering of the species.” Sensing Hacktor’s confusion, Grak explained, “The Saber-Tooth changed their spots over time, my lord. The Woolies shed their hair. The Derk have now lived in The World Above for uncounted millennia. During that time, their bodies have flowered in different ways in order to live more efficiently in their surroundings. Perhaps in the future, all of us will look completely different too – after we also bloom?”
“I don’t want to bloom! I like the way we are.”
“We are all always changing, my Kon-Herr, some more than others. If we don’t continue to grow, one day we may no longer exist.”
“The only ones who are going to go extinct are The Derk – I’m going to destroy them all!” And sensing a hole in Grak’s lesson, the king offered, “If The Derkka were our brothers as you say, then why didn’t they share their resources with us?”
“The same reason we are at war with them now – Greed. As you might expect, the Drokka soon became jealous of The Derk’kas wealth and eventually more Drokka wanted to venture to The World Outside.”
“Logical.”
“Ah, but The Derkka were not so accommodating — those living near the borders of our mountains refused to allow new immigrants into their lands. Tensions rose, yet none knew what to do about it.”
“Simple – make war. Like we are doing now.”
“The concept of using violence to take what you want did not yet exist — until Rhokki appeared again at The Well of Wyzdom.” [Actually, that would be yours truly posing as Rhokii]. “When our lord saw how the Derkka disobeyed his command, Rhokii seethed with rage. He commanded us to take the borderlands by force and destroy the Derkka for their insolence – so began The Great Commission. Our forefathers agreed and War was the inevitable result – the first battle ever fought upon Mittengarten — with the occurrence marking the end of The First Age.”
“OK, so what happened with that war? I’ve never heard of it. Who won?”
“The Drokka were no match for The Derkka – our rivals had greater resources, a larger population, and the ability to cut off supplies to us. That first war quickly ended and when it did, scribes lamented that The Derkka would rule the world – both Above and Below.”
“History has a strange way of settling the score.”
“You are correct – for soon after The Second Age began, a great famine swept throughout the kingdoms of the mountains. The Drokka population was decimated by The Blight. It was our penalty for disobeying Rhokii’s command.”
[I’m sure you can guess who was really behind that little famine].
“The Blight was due to our failure to destroy the Derkka.” Hacktor averred.
“So the scribes of the original Kroniklz documented. And so savage was that famine that the Drokka who survived had no choice but to abandon their caves and beg the Derkka for help.”
“Thus began our enslavement!” Hacktor grumbled. “The scum took advantage of our plight and I will destroy them for it! Why, Grak, you’ve given me the inspiration I need. There’s no way they will escape my wrath. This is a holy war now!”
“It always has been. But before you leave, you must know something else, my king.” The scribe raised a bony finger in caution. “To win a holy war, you must possess the weapon of the gods.”
Hacktor literally beamed. “I have such a piece – The Ghast.” And with that the king stood up, eager to escape this now tiresome scene and get back home to plan for the coming war.
Grak reached out, “Wait, my Lord.”
Yet the king didn’t listen, after a quick bow of appreciation, Hacktor thanked the scribe, waving off the old man’s words and rushing out of the room. Before Grak could even get up from his seat, Hacktor had already grabbed his wife and the pair had scurried out the door of the library. Whilst Hecla peppered her husband with questions, the king merely answered her with grunts as they headed for their entourage. Their party was nearby – already mounted and waiting for them. The royal couple were thus whisked away from the city with all speed – aiming for The Byways and far away Rhokki Pass.
As a result, neither Hacktor (nor I) had a chance to hear Grak’s warning – which was about The Grim – that magical mystery blade that Hef Fastuz had secretly created behind my back at the direction of the real Rhokki and Myndoz. A strange blade that Hacktor had once held in his hands and yet, because he was no disenchanted and put off by the seemingly non-descript weapon, the king had sent it off to the Drokka kingdom in the Akka Mountains (in the far northeast corner of TerrVerde) where it was promptly placed in that kingdom’s Treasure Trove of The Deepest Depths and forgotten about by all. This is unfortunate – for that knowledge could have changed the fate of the entire war and perhaps The Future – for Hacktor, his people, and yea even for me.
After a tiring journey north, the royals eventually made it back to Rhokki Pass by the end of AO 3023. Unfortunately for the king, any knowledge Hacktor thought he learned during his talk with Grak proved of little value the most he thought about it for none of it changed his military strategy or added anything of value to it. And while the scribe sent multiple missives to the Kon-Herr, begging him to return to continue their discussion, Hacktor dismissed those messages out of hand. Besides the fact that the old man’s appearance was ghastly, his wisdom had not panned out.
Grak died that winter – at the age of 153. The king was relieved when he received the news – glad to be released from the burden of the annoying scribe – and thus never learning the knowledge that died with that ancient keeper of The Kroniklz.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 