Part XVII: The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul
Chapter 7: What More?
Timeline: AO 326
Two more years passed and when I checked in on Hacktor again he was back in Kel-de-Kaba – sitting in the war chamber and squabbling again with his generals – still looking for answers. These mortals always struggled as weight of their suffering pressing down upon them, yet still they grasped at the illusion of control, of destiny. Luckily for Hacktor he still somewhat fascinated me and more importantly he was still useful to me.
The fires in the stone braziers around the room flickered, casting long shadows across the faces of those assembled. The air in Kel-de-Kaba was heavy with the weight of years, of long battles fought and not enough to show for it. It was winter again and the air inside the Rhokki’s seeped through the cracks in the walls, yet it wasn’t the cold that was taking its toll – it was the weight of failure.
Hacktor’s generals stood in a loose semicircle around the table, their faces lined with fatigue. Balthuz Hamwise was there, as was Kordak Gumm, Rodrik Vendal, Zybsko Thunn, and others. They’d been listening to Hacktor berate them for the better part of an hour. Finally, Rodrik, still one of the younger commanders, dared to speak out, his eyes filled with a frustration
“My lord,” Rodrik said, his voice steady but with a tremor of desperation, “we must pull back our fronts and fortify our defense networks again. I fear to say what we all know – this war is folly.” He hesitated, knowing the words would stoke the fire of Hacktor’s ire. “Babel is too far away. Oz is lost. Razzyn has been rebuilt by the enemy. Antarez Ford too. They are amassing their power in The World Above and I fear more of our kingdoms in the Rhokii’s will perish if we do not better protect our homes.”
Hacktor’s eyes, sharp and fiery, turned toward the younger general with the kind of fury that could burn through stone. He slammed his gauntleted fist against the table, making the cups of ale jump, and several of the commanders flinched at the sound.
“I will never stop!” Hacktor roared, his deep voice echoing off the stone walls. His anger was palpable, a force that could be felt in the very marrow of the bones of those present. “I realize this war requires us to pay a costly price, but when at last we are successful, the people will be grateful for my perseverance!”
[I couldn’t help but let out a soft chuckle as I watched. His perseverance. How sweet. The man could fight a thousand battles, and he would claim victory every time if only to preserve the fragile ego that held his kingdom together].
Zybsko Thunn, the young Kon-Herr of Gaza, tried his luck next. His father Gilber had been through many campaigns but finally died in battle last year – falling at the hands of a Myz in the campaign near Antarez. Although Zybsko had only been fighting a handful of years, he’d already experienced a lifetime of brutality in Hacktor’s wars, and it showed in the hardness of his young face. “If we must keep fighting, then we need a better plan, my lord,” he said, his voice rough. “The Myz are scything us from the field like wheat, and little can we do against them.”
Hacktor waved his hand dismissively. “Nonsense,” he scoffed. “I shall retake Oz once again and thence proceed to cut down mighty Gwar as well! As for his Myz, I fail to see what is so difficult about the proposition!”
[Such a fool, you are Hacktor, I thought. The Myz – my creations – were mortal like the Drokka, but those grey giants were imbued with physical powers beyond any of the pitiful Drokka’s comprehension. But Hacktor, in his arrogance, thought himself invincible. His eyes blazed with the arrogance of a man who had wielded the magical Ghast for too long, the weapon feeding his delusion of immortality – something he very much was NOT].
It was then that Rawf V, Hacktor’s uncle, stood. The Kon-Herr of far away Akka Mountains, Rawf had made the trip to the Rhokki’s to see for himself what Hacktor’s long war was all about. The elder dwarf’s face, lined with the wisdom and weariness of age, bore a look of concern that Hacktor either didn’t notice or didn’t care to acknowledge.
“Did the prophecy call for us to lose so many of our brothers?” Rawf asked, his voice low but carrying across the room like a distant storm. “Over the past twenty years, untold thousands of our noble warriors have died — too soon. Do you really want to be remembered in the Kroniklz as the Kon-Herr who lost more Drokka in battle than all the others combined?”
Hacktor, passionate in his devotion, leaned back in his chair. “The sacrifice of our warriors who fall in battle is an honor we should all hope for. As for The Kroniklz, wh should I fear what the history books write?” And which a sly smile he explained. “My legacy is sealed, Uncle, for I know the truth — He who controls the present controls the past. I am the Kon-Herr. Therefore I decide what our history books say about my reign.”
Rawf was aghast, “Don’t you care about the truth?”
“What is Truth?” Hacktor chuckled dismissively. “If I tell the scribes to record the loss of 100 men instead of 10,000, they will do as I say. If I tell them to write that I won a battle instead of lost it as you say, who do you think they will listen to?”
[Before you laugh at Hacktor’s pettiness, I’d caution you to see the bigger picture. For the so-called ‘truth’ of your history books is one of the biggest shams of all-time. I’ve always been amused that so few of you have realized this. Visionaries like your modern-day Orwell managed to pierce the veil of these historical lies, but his ilk have been few and far between. Meanwhile the rest of you sheep continue to lap the milk of falsehood that your governments feed you about the past. As Hacktor said, “What is truth?” But I wonder – do YOU even know? The only truth about history is indeed what Hacktor spoke – namely that whoever is in power controls what the history books say. Don’t you realize that what you read about that happened a decade ago, or in a bygone century, or even a 1,000 years in the past, is only what the current government says happened? Whether that’s what really happened or not doesn’t matter, because unless you lived it personally how can you argue with what the official records say? And even if you knew the ‘truth,’ the knowledge in your mind is a poor contender with the power of the official written word — for that History is what the sheeple believe. Hacktor knew this truth and acted accordingly. I’ll give him credit for that much.]
“But, but…” Rodrik tried to jump into the fray, but quickly lost his courage.
Seeing an opportunity to exploit the situation, the elderly conspirator Chaney Busz began leaning on his ornately carved staff to stand up . Although the patriarch of the ancient Busz clan had been silent the entire meeting, the old dwarf let a thin smile curl on his withered lips. His time-worn eyes gleamed beneath his thick brows, and though his frail form seemed small compared to the warriors around him, his presence commanded its own gravity. The staff he bore was not just a walking aid, but a reminder of his family’s influence, a symbol that linked him to the roots of Kel-de-Kaba itself—the fortress city his ancestors had founded through wealth and cunning. Chaney himself was a Drokka who had increased his fortune from Hacktor’s chaos, profiting handsomely from the war while others bled. “The Kon-Herr speaks the truth,” the old dwarf said, his voice oozing with obsequiousness. “Those in power control the past — such as we always have.”
Hacktor, satisfied with his courtier’s support, gave a sharp nod. He rose from his chair too, grabbing The Ghast from the side of his chair and lifting the axe on high – its terrible glow filling the room with an eerie light. “I have more than power,” he declared, his voice booming with self-importance. “For I have The Ghast. I assure you, History will say what The Ghastwielder tells it to.”
Yet King Rawf wasn’t done, though. To his credit, he stood firm, his voice strong despite his advancing age. “Perhaps you have trusted too much in The Ghast, Brave Hacktor. Your Drokka follow you carelessly into battle and seem to forget the disciplined order that for so long led our armies to victory. I have seen your troops – they are ill-prepared and tired. Your people at home are weary of this war, and your kingdoms are crumbling. Surely you can see that, can’t you?”
At that Hacktor’s fury surged again. His face reddened, and his hand tightened around the haft of the Ghast. “Am I not doing what needs to be done?” he shouted. “What more would you have me do, Uncle? I took my host to Oz, and did win back our kingdom there many times over, only to move on to other battles and later hear that Oz had fallen once again because the Kon-Herr’s I left to hold the fort could not do it! They chose to defend instead of attack. They missed the moment!” He slammed his fist against the table again. “You and the rest here say to defend, defend, defend. Yet would Rhokii approve of such cowardice? Would Ajax have let his enemies escape? Would Volzung have dropped his weapons to run and hide? Pah!”
Hacktor glared at the commanders, his anger still smoldering – nobody dared to meet his eyes. Yet Chaney Busz was not scared of Hacktor. The patriarch still leaned on his staff, his shrewd eyes calculating as he surveyed the king and his audience. He let the tension in the room grow for a moment longer before tapping his staff once, a sharp crack against the stone floor that drew the attention of everyone present.
“My lord Kon-Herr,” Chaney began, his voice deceptively soft, carrying an ancient authority that belied his fragile appearance. “Rodrik and Rawf make fair points, but they fail to grasp the deeper wisdom that is seems only I possess, so let me share it with you. The victory of The Ghastwielder is inevitable – any who deny it are fools. Yet even the greatest of Kon-Herr’s must mind the limits of his reach.” The oldster’s voice rasped like old parchment, each word deliberate. “Wars are not won solely on the field of battle, Great Hacktor, but in the hearts and minds of the people and in the machine that keeps this kingdom afloat. I can help with the latter – as I always have – but all of you here must come together behind your Kon-Herr if our people are to finally fulfill Hacktor’s mission.”
Chaney’s words carried double meanings. Hacktor, driven pride, likely saw only the surface—that the elder was supporting his endless war. Perhaps most of the others felt the same way. But Rawf, who had deeper understanding of the politics of TerrVerde, knew better. Hacktor’s Uncle was no stranger to the cabal of elites who sought to determine the fate of the continent, as such Rawf knew quite well that Chaney Busz had no interest in how many Drokka or Derkka perished – the courtier’s only concern was with the coin, and the more the war dragged on, the richer his clan and their secret allies became. Yet in spite of this knowledge, Rawf was also smart enough to know when it was time to keep his wisdom to himself – and this was one of those times.
The meeting, though heated, was thus nearly over. The other Kon-Herrs knew better than to push Hacktor too far. It was clear he would never be convinced to stop this war, and their loyalty to the crown kept them bound to his madness.
[As for me, I relished every second of it. This war was far from over, and with each passing day, Hacktor drew himself deeper into my web. His pride, his thirst for victory, would be his undoing. The Myz would ensure that. I would ensure that].
Weeks later, Hacktor was again back home at Rhokki Pass. It was evening and a fire crackled softly in the hearth of his bedroom as the king sat slouched in his chair, his muscular frame weighed down by the burdens of the upcoming war. With elbows resting on his knees, he stared at the flames, deep in thought, his mind replaying the useless meeting with the generals at Kel-de-Kaba. The orange glow flickered across his scarred face, but the fire in his eyes remained unquenched.
Across the room, Queen Hecla sat at her vanity with an enchanted Mirror of Mersia before her. The mirror, as always, showed the unvarnished truth of her beauty, and Hecla’s beauty was now a thing of legend among the Drokka – as timeless as the mountains of The Rhokki’s. Her raven hair cascaded like silk down her back, catching the flickering light of the fire, its dark strands gleaming with a natural luster. As she combed it before the magic mirror each stroke revealed its full length and shine. Her emerald eyes, sharp and striking, glowed with an inner fire – they were the color of untouched gemstones from the deepest mines and those eyes saw far more than she let on. Yet lately, those same eyes had learned to soften on again when they fell upon her beloved husband Hacktor.
The queen rose – showcasing her alluring form – her body sculpted with delicate curves that ever accentuated her grace. Tonight, she wore a gown of sapphire, the fabric clinging to her in a way that teased without revealing, her silhouette highlighted by the flames in the hearth. The gown, cinched at her narrow waist, draped sensuously over her hips, flowing with each subtle movement as she stepped slowly towards her lover. There was something both regal and seductive about Hecla—the kind of beauty that could command attention without a word, that left men breathless and women envious. She was fully aware of her effect of course, and she knew what it meant with the way Hacktor’s eyes followed her – and the feeling empowered her.
Although captivated by his wife, Hacktor broke the spell for a moment when he complained. “The generals… all of them are cowards, my love. None had the guts to give me an answer. Hecla, believe it or not, they spoke of surrendering our positions in The World Above, of resorting to defense! Some even suggested we abandon the war altogether and hide behind walls, as if the Derkka wouldn’t tear them down!” He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening as he stared at the fire. “And the courtiers are no help – they’re all too busy lining their own pockets. Chaney Busz, Monty Redstone, the Rukstinz bankers… all fattening themselves on this war while the rest of us bleed for it. And Garrick and his Priory of the Myz—don’t think for a moment they’re not involved, conspiring behind the scenes. They want me to fail.”
Hecla, having listened in silence, had continued to moved gracefully towards him and now stood behind Hacktor’s chair. Her smooth hands rested on the king’s broad shoulders, kneading the tension from his muscles. “Hacktor, you’ve always seen the truth clearer than others. I have no doubt they’re plotting against you, just as you suspect. But,” she paused, leaning down to kiss the top of his head, “none of that changes the fact that you are destined for greatness.”
Hacktor tilted his head back to meet her gaze. “You still believe that?”
“I do,” she said with certainty, her voice soothing yet confident. “You’re the only one with the courage to see this war through to the end. The only one who can bring Rhokki’s strength to our people. That’s why I love you, Hacktor. You’ve never wavered, not in your heart. Even when everything falls apart, you still believe you can win.” She came around to kneel before him, taking his hands in hers. “You have to keep going, no matter what they say. Even if it’s just you and me against the world – we will never give up, never!”
Hacktor let out a deep sigh, the weight of his wife’s words both a comfort and a reminder of the impossible burden he carried. “I’ve been praying to Rhokki every night,” he admitted. “Begging him for a sign, for the wisdom to know how to defeat Garrick and his goblins. But it’s like the gods are silent, Hecla. What if… what if I’m not hearing them because I’m not worthy?”
Hecla frowned, rubbing his hands, her eyes soft but resolute. “You are worthy, my love. You’re more than worthy. Do not doubt yourself. And know that I believe in you. Rhokki’s silence doesn’t mean you’ve been abandoned. The gods don’t always answer right away. Besides…” she hesitated, not wanting to show her own doubts about the gods, “praying has helped you, hasn’t it? I see it in you, husband. Your strength, your drive—it’s grown since you’ve been praying. And I’ll keep praying with you, even if I don’t always understand. I believe in you, and I believe that Rhokki will come through.”
Hacktor searched her face, taking comfort in her faith, even if it wasn’t directed at the gods. “And what if he doesn’t?”
Hecla smiled softly, standing to place a hand on his cheek. “Then you keep fighting. You know what you have to do—take Babel. Kill Garrick. Cut off the head of the snake, and the body will die too. That’s how you’ll win. Focus on him, Hacktor. Focus on Garrick.”
He nodded slowly, her words sinking in. “You think Rhokki would agree with that?”
“I do,” she said firmly. “You’re on the right path, Hacktor. Rhokki will show you the way, but you already have the strength inside you. I see it. And I’ll be by your side, no matter what.”
Hacktor looked at her, the fire in his heart rekindled by her confidence. He rose from the chair, pulling her into a tight embrace. “I love you.”
She rested her head on his chest, smiling. “I’ll always be here, Hacktor. For you. For us. Just like we always promised each other.”
Their embrace lingered as the fire crackled and they spent the night intertwined as only lovers can do.
A few days later, Hacktor knelt at the altar of the great Temple of Rhokki Pass. It was again in the middle of the night and, as had become his habit, he’d had Malchior open the church so that he could spend time alone with the gods. Although Hecla had sometimes joined him on these late night sojourns, on this occasion, Hacktor was by himself.
The king’s weathered hands were together in prayer as he bowed his head before the towering statues of Rhokki and Kalypzo. The temple’s dim light flickered off the gods’ lifeless stone faces, casting eerie shadows across the vast hall. The statue of Rhokki stood at the center, massive and imposing, a giant muscular dwarf with thick, braided hair and a long beard flowing down his chest. His arms, crossed over his chest, bulged with power, and his gaze was forever frozen in a look of triumph. Beside him, Kalypzo’s matronly form was full and curvaceous like the mountains, with flowing robes that were etched in intricate detail to resemble vines and roots. Her hair was long and wild, but her serene face conveyed wisdom and a deep caring for her people.
Hacktor had spent countless hours in this temple, seeking guidance from these deities, praying for their wisdom, but the only thing he had ever received in return was… silence.
“Mother Kalypzo, Lord Rhokki,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I have done everything for you. My life, my battles, my victories—they are all yours. I have sacrificed everything, even my kin. And still, I am not enough. I beg of you, my lords, give me a sign. Show me the way to crush the Derkka. Grant me the strength to fulfill my destiny.”
The silence stretched on, and Hacktor felt the frustration build inside him. He prostrated himself completely on the floor and even began to slam his fists onto the stone , his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Am I not worthy?” he growled. “What more must I do?”
The king continued on like this for some time, until eventually, the torches in the temple flickered, their flames dancing wildly as if caught in a sudden wind. A tingle ran down Hacktor’s spine and the king froze, his breath hitching in his throat. Slowly, he rose up and lifted his gaze – that’s when he noticed that the air around the massive stone figure of Rhokki seemed to shimmer, and a faint glow began to pulse from within the stone. Hacktor’s heart pounded as the statue’s eyes, once lifeless, now gleamed with an ethereal light and shortly after this, the god’s stone arms, crossed in eternal stillness, began to move.
Hacktor prostrated himself again, repeatedly bowing his head to the floor, as the towering figure of Rhokki came to life before him. The god’s enormous frame seemed to radiate with raw power, his muscles rippling beneath his skin as if charged with divine energy. His beard, long and thick, swayed as if caught in a wind that Hacktor could not feel. His hair, flowing like molten fire, gleamed in the flickering light of the torches. His skin also glowed faintly, as though the very essence of strength itself coursed through his veins. His eyes burned with the light of the fires of a volcano, and his voice, when it came, rumbled like thunder through the temple.
“You have called, Hacktor Derkillez,” Rhokki’s voice boomed, echoing off the stone walls. “And I have heard your plea.”
[At this point I should probably tell you that this wasn’t the real lumenarc Rhokki, but instead yours truly. With Rhokki still completely fixated on Gaia [i.e. Kalypzo], the stupid oaf hardly ever left Gaia’s prison at the North Pole of the flat earth. I doubt he’d ever heard of Hacktor and I know he didn’t care all that much for ‘his’ Drokka people. That left me free to abscond his identity and use the situation to my advantage – which I was all too happy to do. You know how much I love playing these false gods!]
I watched as Hacktor stared up me in awe, his heart pounding in his chest. His god, his divine master, had come. “Rhokki!” he cried, his voice trembling. “I knew you would answer. I have waited so long. I am ready—ready to serve you, to destroy the Derkka as you command.”
My Rhokki’s eyes glowed brighter, and I let a smirk tug at the corners of my mighty beard. “Ready… are you?” I said, my tone carrying a weight that sent a shiver down Hacktor’s spine. “You speak of readiness, of strength. But strength is not simply given, Hacktor. It must be earned, forged in the fires of pain and sacrifice.”
Hacktor knelt, trembling with both reverence and fear. “I have sacrificed everything for you, my lord. Tell me what I must do. I will follow your command without question.”
I let the god’s expression darkened, and the temperature in the temple seemed to drop. “There is a trial,” Rhokki said, my voice low and foreboding. “An ancient rite… one that only the strongest have dared to undertake. It is known as The Tree of the Forsaken. A trial that has claimed the lives of many who sought its glory. Only one has ever survived its torment: Ajax the Freemaker.”
Hacktor felt his blood run cold at the name. Ajax the Freemaker was THE legend among the Drokka, the savior of the entire race, the founder of the first kingdom, a warrior whose strength and cunning were unmatched, and the first Kon-Herr of The Kroniklz. But the stories of The Tree of The Forsaken were only ever whispered in hushed tones – Hacktor didn’t know much about the rite, just that the tales spoke of unspeakable pain, horror, and death.
“Ajax endured pain that no mortal could fathom,” Rhokki continued, my voice heavy with menace. “After preparation from The Wyze One, Ajax was crucified to one of the ancient Blackwood Trees. His body was pierced with iron nails, his flesh torn, his blood seeping into the sacred wood. For three days he was left without food, without water, without aid. During that time, Ajax’s mind was assaulted by visions, tormented by his own fears. And in that agony, he found the truth of his strength, and the answers he needed to write his name among the stars. Ajax made the rite famous – and since then, others have sought to follow in the footsteps of The Freemaker… but all of them perished in unspeakable torment.”
Hacktor felt a surge of fear in his chest, but he clenched his fists, refusing to show weakness. “I am of royal Balkery blood,” he said, his voice trembling but determined. “If Ajax could survive, then so can I.”
I let Rhokki’s eyes blaze with cold fire. “You think yourself as strong as Ajax? You may choose to try to endure the same trial, but I warn you – the ritual will be worse for you, Hacktor. The world is darker now. The Blackwood Trees are almost gone, felled by the greed of your own people. Perhaps a suitable one still stands, hidden deep in the forest, tainted by the blood of those who failed. If you find it, you may choose to be crucified to that tree – and then your blood will mingle with the cursed souls who perished before you.”
Hacktor’s breath caught in his throat, but he forced himself to meet Rhokki’s burning gaze. “Tell me what I must do.”
“Go to Mirkir The Wyze,” Rhokki said, my voice a low growl. “He will prepare you with the sacred victuals, drawn from the roots of the earth, potent enough to purge your body and soul. Once purified, you will journey to the Blackwood Tree and undergo the ritual. For three days, you will remain nailed to that tree, your flesh bound to its cursed bark. The spirits of the fallen will claw at your mind, and your body will break. You will be forsaken! But if you somehow survive, Hacktor, then you will rise as more than a Kon-Herr—you will become a legend.”
Hacktor’s heart hammered in his chest. The fear gnawed at him, the horror of the trial weighing heavily on his mind. But beneath the terror, something stirred—a fierce, burning pride. He had waited his whole life for this moment, for the chance to prove himself. He was Hacktor Derkillez, a royal Balkery, The Ghastwielder, and he would not falter.
“I will do it,” Hacktor said, rising to his feet. His hands shook, but his voice was steady. “I will find that Blackwood Tree. I will endure this trial. And when I return, I will crush the Derkka beneath my heel.”
I made Rhokki’s glowing statue smile, though the malice behind my expression was surely lost on my pawn. “Then go, Hacktor,” the god said, my voice dripping with dark satisfaction. “Your destiny awaits.”
Then it was that I let Rhokki’s statue return to lifeless stone – the charade had served its purpose. Hacktor’s resolve was hardened. His god had spoken. The Tree of The Forsaken awaited, and Hacktor would face it. I would make sure that he survived, and I would ensure that he would indeed become a legend – but sadly for him it wasn’t going to be in the way he wanted.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 