17.8 I Must Know

Part XVII: The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul
Chapter 8: I Must Know
Timeline: AO 326

The wind inside the mountain passages that connected Rhokki Pass to the outside world howled like wounded beasts, rattling the windows of the palace, and carrying with it the chill of impending doom. Inside the dimly lit chambers of the royal couple, shadows danced across the room, the flickering light from the hearth offering little warmth to the coldness that gripped Queen Hecla’s heart. She stood near the window, staring out at the vast, darkened landscape of the city beyond the palace walls, her reflection flickering in the glass. Her hair was half-loose, its glossy strands tangled from her restless pacing.

The weight of what was to come pressed heavily on her slender shoulders, and though her exterior was calm, inside she felt like a miner caught beneath a landslide, being crushed by fear and uncertainty. She clenched the folds of her soft gown, fingers twisting the green fabric, as if grounding herself in something tangible might keep her from spiraling into despair.

Hacktor sat in his armchair before the fire, his broad back to her, staring into the crackling flames as if they held the answers to all his questions. He had barely spoken since that fateful night last week – when the god Rhokki had visited Hacktor at the temple and told the king about The Tree of the Forsaken ritual. Her husband had been distant and distracted ever since – had barely left that chair – and the silence was gnawing at Hecla. Hacktor had always faced things with such grim determination, but now there was something else—something darker in his demeanor. The firelight played across his chiseled features, casting deep shadows on his hardened face, making him seem more like a mythic statue than a Dwarf King – but even statues could crumble.

“Hacktor,” The queen finally whispered, her voice cracking as she turned from the window and took a tentative step toward him. “You don’t have to do this… there must be another way.”

The sound of her voice broke through Hacktor’s trance. He turned, his piercing eyes meeting hers, softened with regret but steeled with resolve. “There is no other way, Hecla,” he said, his deep voice rumbling with a calmness that seemed to mock the chaos she felt inside. “The Tree of the Forsaken… it’s the only path left.”

Hecla took another step forward, her hands reaching out toward him before stopping just short. “But why? Others have faced the tree and perished, Hacktor. Only Ajax survived, and The Kroniklz say he was… changed. You’re The Kon-Herr now. I am your queen. Together we rule The Rhokki’s. You have nothing to prove.”

Hacktor’s jaw clenched at her words, and for a moment, Hecla was sure she saw the flicker of doubt crossed his mind, which only caused her to worry more. She came to him and hugged him tightly – wanting the moment to last forever.

“I have everything to prove,” he hugged his wife as he muttered under his breath. Then pulling apart he looked up at her. “This is what must be done. If I fail, if I show weakness now, it will be a sign that our enemies have already won. They need to see that Rhokki’s chosen will endure anything.”

Hecla’s heart wrenched at his words, her face contorting in frustration and pain. She wanted to argue, to plead with him, but the words stuck in her throat. She knew him too well—there was no turning him from this path. And that was what terrified her the most. Her fingers trembled as she reached out and touched his face, her thumb brushing over the stubble on his jaw. “I don’t care about our enemies right now,” she whispered fiercely, her voice trembling with emotion. “I care about you. I care about us. What if… what if that cursed tree takes you from me?”

Hacktor’s rough fingers traced her knuckles, and for a moment, he allowed himself to be vulnerable, lowering his forehead to rest against hers. “I know you’re afraid,” he said softly, his breath warm against her skin, “but so am I.”

The admission hung in the air between them, heavier than the silence that followed. He pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her slender frame, his hands sliding over the soft fabric of her dress. She buried her face against his chest, and for a brief moment, they stood together in the firelit room, cocooned in a fragile sense of safety.

“But I must do this, Hecla,” Hacktor continued, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder would break the fragile peace between them. “This is bigger than us. If I don’t endure the Tree of the Forsaken, how can I hope to inspire our people to finish the war? How can I stand against the Derkka, against the Myz, against Gwar himself, if I can’t face this trial?”

He pulled away slightly, cupping her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears she didn’t even realize had begun to fall. Hecla’s emerald eyes shone in the dim light, a mixture of love and fear swirling in their depths. “What if you… don’t survive?” she whispered, the words barely audible, as if saying them too loud would make them real. “What will I do without you?”

Hacktor pressed his lips to her forehead, a kiss both tender and filled with the weight of his unspoken fears. “You’ll survive, Hecla. You’re stronger than you think. And if I don’t come back…” He paused, the thought too painful to complete, “then you must lead in my stead. The Drokka need you, as much as they need me – perhaps more.”

Hecla closed her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she tried to hold back the sob building in her chest. She had always prided herself on her strength, her ability to face any challenge without faltering, but this was different. This was Hacktor—the Drokka she loved, her husband, her twin, and the only person she had ever trusted. Losing him was unthinkable.

“I will wait for you,” she whispered at last, her voice barely holding together. “But promise me, Hacktor… promise me you’ll come back to me.”

Hacktor looked into her eyes, his heart aching with the same fear she felt, but he couldn’t give her the promise she wanted. He could only nod, pulling her close one last time before the fire crackled again, reminding him of the weight of his destiny.

---

More than a month passed, but one day the air in Rhokki Pass felt heavier than usual, thick with the weight of anticipation and dread. The banners of the Drokka that lined the palace walls fluttered lazily in the interior mountain breezes. Inside the royal halls, there was an uneasy stillness, as if the very stones were holding their breath in expectation of something sinister.

Hacktor sat at his desk in his chambers, his jaw clenched as he looked a map of Gor, unable to concentrate. The news had come earlier that morning—Mirkir the Wyze was nearly here. The high priest, though frail and wizened, was still the symbol of Rhokki’s will, and it would fall to him to prepare Hacktor for the ritual he’d committed himself to endure.

Yet Hacktor felt nothing but loathing at the thought of his old mentor.

There had been a time when Hacktor had revered Mirkir, even admired him for his wisdom and unwavering dedication to the gods – for the high priest had been a towering figure of authority during Hacktor’s youth, shaping him into the man he had become. Of course that facade quickly faded when the lecherous priest made young Hacktor his Beloved – turning the prince into his personal catamite and abusing the boy legally for years. Although Hacktor had escaped when he’d reached maturity and returned to court to take his place as Baldur’s rightful heir, decades later the evil cleric got his clutches into Hacktor’s children – most notably his son Alf – whom Mirkir claimed for his own when the boy was still a child.

Hacktor’s lips curled in disgust at the rumors of what happened to Alf – so sinister he couldn’t bring himself to accept them as true. Yet he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to KNOW – as such he’d secretly approached Monty Redstone behind Hecla’s back and asked the Coinmaster to use his network of informants to keep him apprised of his son. So horrible was the news that Monty had feared to tell the king in person and made excuses to provide all his updates by letter. What Hacktor learned tore his heart out. Monty’s spies discovered that by the time Alf was twelve The Wyze One had Hacktor’s son abusing other children too – providing the prince with a limitless supply of younger girls and boys to debauch – all whilst Mirkir watched (and often joined in). By fourteen Mirkir had encouraged Alf to dress like a Drokkina and, given that Alf had the features of his beautiful mother, the prince was oft mistaken for a girl – apparently much to Mirkir’s delight. Finally, last year, Alf was encouraged by The Wyze One to geld one of the most handsome male slaves who served at the altars of Iztak and then Mirkir performed a secret ritual to wed himself to Alf and the gelding so that the three of them could reside together in their vile trio. It was a grotesque mockery of marriage, a consolidation of power for Mirkir, binding the royal family to the high priesthood in a way that made Hacktor’s skin crawl and the king retched at the thought.

Although Hacktor and Monty had managed to keep most of the rumors away from the queen’s ears, their son’s ‘marriage’ quickly became the talk of all the taverns and when it reached Hecla, Hacktor’s wife became so disgusted by her son that she disowned Alf and decreed that Mirkir was no longer allowed to visit the royal court at The Rhokki’s. And whilst Mirkir had always held a power over Hacktor, The Wyze One knew his limits when it came to Hecla and he’d wisely chosen to not test the queen’s anger – he’d stayed away from the high court and happily enjoyed his love triangle unfettered in Iztak – until now.

Although Hacktor knew that Hecla knew that Mirkir would have to visit Rhokki Pass in order to do his part to assist the king as he prepared for The Tree of the Forsaken ritual, neither Hackor nor Hecla spoke a word to each other about the Wyze One’s visit and the queen made sure to remain isolated in her apartments when it became clear that the priest was about to arrive in the city.

Despite his own intense revulsion, Hacktor swallowed his outrage and sought Mirkir’s help. Despite the high priest’s many sins, and even in his old and crumbling state of health, the king knew that Mirkri still held the key to the gods’ favor, and Hacktor could not afford to alienate the evil priest—not when he was about to undergo the trial of his life.

As Hacktor sat there, thinking on these things, a knock echoed through the chamber, snapping him from his thoughts. A servant entered, bowing low. “The Wyze One Mirkir and and the First Servant Malchior der Naves have arrived, your majesty,” the servant announced.

Hacktor nodded, dismissing the servant with a wave of his hand. He stood up and turned to face the door, steeling himself for the meeting that was to come.

When the doors opened, Mirkir the Wyze entered, supported by two attendants. He was draped in the ebon robes of the high priesthood, adorned with intricate golden symbols of Rhokki – yet that regal garb could not mask the haggard state of the man beneath. His face was deeply lined behind the wisps of what remained of his white beard, and his once-vibrant hair had thinned dramatically, now hanging limply around the shoulders of his robe. Yet the old dwarf’s eyes, though clouded with age, still held the gleam of intelligence—and something more. Power. Control.

Behind him, Malchior der Naves followed, although younger than Mirkir, Malchior was middle aged himself. Besides being The First Servant of the Drokka – and thus next in line to become The Wyze One, Hacktor knew that Malchoir had also long been a secret conspirator among the Drokka cabal. However as Malchior had never given Hacktor reason to fear him, the king hadn’t concerned himself with Malchior’s politics – especially because the Hacktor had never heard any rumors to indicate the priest had any nefarious vices. Although Hacktor suspected he had vices – after all everyone did – since Malchior kept whatever evils he partook in on the down lo, the king appreciated his discretion.

It was the sight of Mirkir that sickened Hacktor. The Drokka who had once been a powerful leader was now a decrepit shadow of his former self, his body bent and twisted by age. He hobbled when he walked in, his hands trembling as he clutched the staff of Rhokki, and his voice—once booming and authoritative—had become a whisper, weak and raspy like the last breath of a dying man.

“Your majesty,” Mirkir rasped, his voice like the creaking of ancient wood. He bowed stiffly, his attendants holding him upright. “The time has come.”

Hacktor clenched his jaw, forcing himself to bow his head in return. “Wyze One,” he greeted coldly. His eyes flickered to Malchior for a moment, before returning to Mirkir. “I trust you’ve made the necessary preparations?”

Mirkir nodded, though the effort seemed to drain him, he looked to Malchior to explain.

“The preparations are underway.” The First Servant advised. “The Wyze One and I have gathered the sacred herbs and victuals required for your endurance. The ritual cannot be entered into lightly, your majesty. We must ensure your body is… fortified for the ordeal.”

Hacktor’s eyes narrowed. “Fortified how?”

Mirkir’s thin lips curved into something resembling a smile, whilst Malchior continued. “The concoction we will give you has been passed down through the our priesthood for centuries. The Wyze One assures you that our victuals will dull the pain… somewhat. And it will sustain your body while the tree takes hold.”

Hacktor didn’t like the sound of that. He had heard tales of what the mushrooms and herbs could do—inducing visions, madness, and even death if improperly administered. But he had no choice. The Tree of the Forsaken demanded his blood and his suffering, and he could not back down now.

“Tell me, priests” Hacktor said, his voice hard, “how many others have attempted this ritual since Ajax?”

Mirkir’s smile faded, replaced by a grim expression. “Twelve. All failed.”

Hacktor felt a chill crawl down his spine, but he didn’t let it show. “How did they fail?”

Mirkir again signaled for his underlying to explain so Malchior replied. “The Kroniklz are sparse on the details of most, however we do know what happened for the most recent three. Each Drokka’s failure was different. One died from the poison of the Blackwood Tree, his body unable to endure the venom that seeps into the blood during the ritual. Another succumbed to madness—he tore himself from the tree before the three days were up and was found wandering the Blackwoods, his mind shattered. The last…” Malchior paused, his eyes meeting Hacktor’s. “The last endured the full three days, but when he was taken down from the tree, he was an empty husk. His spirit had been consumed.”

Hacktor clenched his fists at his sides, but his voice remained steady. “And Ajax? How did he survive?”

Mirkir’s eyes darkened. “Ajax… endured.”

“But The Kroniklz attest that The Freemaker was not the same afterward.” Malchior added. “For we know that the experience of the tree changes those who survive it. You will never be the same, Hacktor. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” Hacktor replied, though the weight of those words sat heavy on him.

Malchior spoke further. “The tree will take your blood, your majesty. It will demand a part of you, but it will give you something in return. You will see things… learn things that no other Drokka has known.”

“You must endure.” Mirkir commanded.

“Only by surviving the full three days,” Malchior added, “will you unlock the power Rhokki has promised you.”

Hacktor’s gaze flickered between the two priests, his mind turning over their words. He didn’t trust them—not fully. But he had no other choice. Rhokki had called him to this path, and he would follow it to its end, whatever that might be.

Mirkir’s frail hand lifted, trembling as he gestured to the satchel one of his attendants carried whilst The First Servant advised, “The herbs and mushrooms are ready. We will prepare them for you when we arrived at the site of the ritual, and you will take them before dawn on the day you are crucified. But be prepared, my lord, for you will need to be in a state of readiness before we reach the Blackwoods.”

Hacktor gave a curt nod. “Then do what needs to be done.”

Mirkir bowed his head again, his body sagging as if the act took everything out of him. Hacktor watched him with a mixture of disgust and pity. The old man was a relic, yet he still held the power to bend kings to his will. It was a sobering reminder that no matter how strong Hacktor thought himself, there were always forces beyond his control.

After the priests took their leave, Hacktor turned back to the hearth – staring into the fire once more. The Tree awaited him, its dark branches reaching out like skeletal fingers in his mind. Although he had never seen it, he could feel its presence, lurking in the distance, and while he had resolved to face it, a part of him still feared what would come.

But fear would not stop him. He was Hacktor Derkillez, king of the Drokka, and he would endure. He would prove himself worthy of Rhokki’s blessing—even if it cost him everything.