Part XVIII: The Darkest Day
Chapter 3: For Thee, O Drokka
Timeline: AO 326
Ah, mortals—so tender, so fragile. How easily they cling to love, thinking it will save them. Hacktor Derkillez and his twin sister Hecla are no different. Even now, as I watched them through the thin veil separating my realm from theirs, they held each other in some desperate embrace. It would have been almost be touching—if it wasn’t so laughably doomed.
The palace of Rhokki Pass, ensconced under the mountains like an old predator’s nest, was still, as if out of respect for this moment. In the king and queen’s bedroom the candles flamed like mournful eyes watching a tragedy unfold. Upon the bed lay Hacktor and Hecla, their fires of passion now spent, yet the fire in the nearby hearth still cast flickering shadows on the stone walls—like echoes of the chaos I’ve sown in their lives.
Hecla head lay on Hacktor’s chest, her fingers tracing the scars along his arm. “My love, you must return to me,” Hecla whispered, her voice tinged with a softness that mortals always seem to reserve for their last moments together. “You will return, won’t you?”
Hacktor, stroked her hair. “I will return,” he says, his voice low but firm. “You know it, Hecla. You’ve always known it. This is my purpose. I was born for this.”
[Born for this. I couldn’t help but smirk at the thought when he said it. Yes, Hacktor, you were born for this—for war, for slaughter, for the strings I’ve tied you to since you first drew breath. Your life has been a careful orchestration of suffering, all leading to your destiny. And Hecla, dear Hecla, you’ll be left behind, as you always have been, watching the threads unravel while thinking you can still hold them together.]
Hecla pulled away slightly, just enough to look into Hacktor’s eyes, searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or some sign that her faith in him isn’t misplaced. [Poor thing – Faith is the luxury of the blind but she doesn’t know it]. She placed a hand on his cheek, her thumb brushing over the coarse stubble. “We’ve faced so much, Hacktor,” she murmured. “The children… the wars… the betrayals. Yet, here we are.”
“I know, Hecla.” Hacktor’s voice softened, a rare moment of vulnerability. “But it all leads here. The battle to come… it’s the final test. After Garrick is defeated, after the Derkka are gone, everything will change.”
[A War that creates Change? Hah. Nothing changes after war except the players in the eternal farce. Garrick, Hacktor, Hecla, and the countless other ‘leaders’ of your wars over the millennia —they’re all part of the same cyclical dance – the dance I have always orchestrated.]
Hecla leaned in closer, her lips brushed against her lovers, her breath trembled as if she could already feel the weight of his absence. “Then we’ll finally have peace.”
[Peace? You mortals are always so obsessed with peace. Do you not realize peace is just a pause in the slaughter? A momentary lull before the next storm I conjure for you?]
Hacktor kissed his queen, long and deep, as if pouring every unsaid word into that one gesture. [I’ll admit, it was almost beautiful—if you could stomach the sentimentality of it all. But I knew the truth. I knew what waited for him on that battlefield. And it wasn’t peace. Not for him. Not for her.]
After a time, Hacktor got up from the bed and moved towards the fireplace, his massive frame casting a shadow over Hecla as the fire sputtered low. “Get some rest,” he said, his voice once more that of the leader, the warrior. “Tomorrow we must part.”
Hecla eyes were filled with a mixture of sadness and hope – that strange paradox that only mortals can carry in the face of the inevitable. “This battle will bring you victory, my love,” she moved to stand beside her lover, wrapping her body around him from behind. “I can feel it. And when you return, we will rebuild.”
Hacktor squeezed her hands upon his chest – in that silent promise of a man who has no idea that fate has already sealed his doom.
[I know what you’re thinking – why won’t I help them? It’s true, I could save them both. But where’s the fun in that? Instead I prefer to let them believe that victory awaits them – by the time they realized they’ve been dancing to my tune all along, it was always going to be too late. After all, what’s a game without a little suffering? And so, I watched, the invisible puppet master, amused by their hope, entertained by their love. But love, like everything else in their pitiful lives, was just another string I planned to sever when the time came.]
Ah, you mortals and your pageantry. How your kings always revel in their tiny moments, trying so hard to elevate themselves to the heights of gods. Today it was Hacktor Derkillez – a fool standing before his army, pretending to be something greater than mere flesh and bone, believing he was nigh a god.
It was the beginning of the fall of that fateful year and the king and his men were gathered before the rebuilt Siq – that Drokka gateway to The World Above and the path that would take them to their destiny. Built with black stones quarried from the mountain, this version of the Siq was a fitting stage for this grand display of power and arrogance. These new twin towers loomed over the Drokka army gathered below, casting long shadows that stretched across the valley like dark talons, as if even the land itself feared what’s to happen to these men.
Hacktor stood before them, on a dais lifted high enough that every Drokka from the lowliest foot soldier to the most seasoned warrior could see him. In their eyes, Hacktor was their god. And why shouldn’t he be? Wearing armor of silver plate inlaid with rhokkium gems, the metal was so polished that it was as if Hacktor wore the sun on his chest, the gems glowing like they pulsed with the heart of the mountain. Having survived the Tree of the Forsaken ritual, the Kon Herr was now more myth than man, and he dazzled the eyes of the dwarves he was talking to. Surely, in this moment, the king’s men would have followed him to the ends of Mittengarten.
The army sprawled across the valley floor, 150,000 Drokka strong, perhaps more. It was the largest force ever assembled for their people – at least that’s what The Kroniklz of Chaldea claimed – for Hacktor made sure of that. [I could practically hear the scribes working away in their chambers, revising the old records to ensure that no king before Hacktor can claim a greater host – after all, what’s a little rewriting of history when you plan to reshape it entirely?]
Banners flapped in the crisp morning wind, bearing the sigils of the seven surviving kingdoms of the Rhokii. Red, gold, black—all the colors of pride and blood. The air hummed with anticipation, thick with the smell of oiled steel, sweat, and the lingering scent of blackwood sap from the forests they’d razed in their long, bloody campaigns.
At Hacktor’s feet stood his generals and commanders – with reputations as the most fearsome warriors of the realm: Balthuz Hamwise, Rodrik Vendal, Kordak Gumm, and more. Behind them, row after row of soldiers stretched into the distance, a sea of silver and iron, shields gleaming in the dawn light, axes and spears lifted high, as if waiting for his command to unleash chaos.
Trumpets blared. Drums thundered. The sound reverberated through the valley, a heartbeat of war that quickened with every moment. It was a symphony of violence, and although they didn’t know it, I was its unseen conductor.
And then, finally he spoke. Hacktor Derkillez – the Kon-Herr Drokka of the Rhokki’s, The Royal Balkery, the Myz Breaker, the Oath Keeper, the Oz Deliverer, The Great Ghastwielder, etc. etc. – this mortal of so many accomplishments addressed his men – not just as their king, but as something more. His words are crafted to perfection, each syllable woven with the weight of destiny, soaked in the blood of a hundred battles.
“You are the finest Drokka to walk the face of Mittengarten, the cherished soldiers of our great nation, the best our country has to offer, and I love you,” Hacktor declared, his voice carried on the wind, reaching even the furthest ranks.
And they believed him, those men hanging on every word as though it were scripture. The Drokka army stood frozen in reverence. Some fell to their knees. Others gripped their weapons tighter, their knuckles white with devotion. A ripple of awe spread through the ranks, like a wave crashing upon the shores of their collective soul. Hacktor could have said anything in that moment, and they would have believed it. For they saw him not as a mere mortal, but as the embodiment of the entire Drokka nation—strong, unyielding, a beacon of hope in this long, endless war.
Next Hacktor spread his arms wide, the sunlight glinting off his silvered armor, casting flashes of light across the assembled soldiers. He looked like a statue carved by the gods themselves, immovable, invincible. His chestplate, adorned with those rhokkium gems, seemed to glow with an inner fire, each gem pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. The very ground beneath him must have felt as though it trembled, as if even the earth acknowledged his presence.
“We’re going to the last battle of this long war.” Hacktor averred. “I know that many of you have toiled for so long, yet I must ask for one more effort—toil on still further with me. This is the final battle, oh my brothers, so let us show the world the spirit of the Drokka does not die but thrives!” His voice rose, a challenge, a demand, and the crowd answered in silent unity, their breath held as though waiting for a divine command.
Then it was that I could feel the men’s fear, their doubt, buried beneath layers of pride and loyalty. For you mortals always fear something—fear the unknown, fear failure, fear death. But Hacktor… after decades of leading young men into the grindstone of war, he knew how to twist that fear into something potent. He knew how to make those men forget that they were but flesh and bone, fragile things marching toward the jaws of death.
“And should you fear that you are forgotten at home,” Hacktor continued, his voice lowering into something almost tender, “that you’ve been served the stale crusts of bread for all your wounds, that you’ve suffered beyond measure, know that I have suffered with you. But I ask you not to go to battle for me, but for your people. For this time, you serve not Hacktor Derkillez, but the great Drokka nation. Forget your wounds, forget your suffering, grit your teeth with me and say, ‘For thee, O Drokka!'”
And as if on cue, as if some divine force possessed them, the army roared out in response. It was a primal sound, raw and unrestrained, a collective howl that shook the stones beneath them. “For thee, O Drokka!” the men cried out, their voices rising as one as the rattled their weapons in a storm of steel and fury.
I smiled at the drama of it all – the performance was perfect. Hacktor, ever the consummate actor, had played his role to the hilt. He believed in that moment, believed in the power of his words, in the fate of his star. But what he ded not realize, what he had never known, was that he was still just a puppet, his strings always pulled by my unseen hand.
“And when we do return to our homes once the fighting is done,” The king proclaimed. “I assure you that your families will be standing at the gates to meet you with praise. Let us begin to earn that praise today!” Hacktor raised The Ghast high into the sky, its blade catching the light of the sun. “Say it with me then – Challenge not the Drokka!”
The army answered in unison, a thunderous declaration that echoed off the mountains. “For Rhokki is our God!”
[Ah, yes. Rhokki. Their false idol, their beloved god of the mountain. They didn’t even know how far they’d strayed from their so-called divinity. But it was not Rhokki who led them now. It was me. It had always been me].
And so, as 150,000 Drokka warriors surged forward from the gates of The Siq, marching toward what they believed was their final victory. They had no idea what awaited them – for they did not know the hand that was guiding them into oblivion was min.
A few days later, on the eve of reaching the agreed upon battle site, the Drokka camp sprawled across the foothills like a beast in slumber, restless and eager for the bloodletting to begin. Innumerable tents, flapping in the night wind, stretched into the distance, their shapes barely visible under the cold light of the crescent moon. The sounds of the army—murmurs of conversation, the scraping of whetstones on blades, and the occasional burst of laughter—echoed across the valley. They laughed because they know no better. They laughed because death had not yet come to claim them.
The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, cooking fires, and the pungent tang of blackwood smoke curling from the braziers set near their commander’s tents. The soldiers gathered around those flames, their faces gaunt and hardened, marked by years of war. Although many were fresh-faced recruits eager for glory, others were veterans – men who had killed before and wanted to kill again.
Tonight, beneath the low hum of idle conversation and the distant clang of armor being repaired, there was a tension. Even the hardened men felt it—the weight of something looming on the horizon for them, something darker than they could comprehend.
A bit away from the bustle of the camp, and far from the wagon train, Hacktor Derkillez sat in his grand pavilion, surrounded by the banners of his house, the sigil of the The Ghast sewn into every fold of fabric. His tent this time around was perhaps a monument to his arrogance, draped in silks and adorned with the spoils of his prior conquests—golden chalices, fine furs, the skull trophies from fallen foes. He allowed himself this indulgence because this was to be the final battle. Yet amidst that opulence, there was only one thing that truly mattered to him: The Ghast. That magical battle ax rested beside him, its dark, cursed blade gleaming with a malevolent sheen under the light of the lanterns.
Hacktor was alone now. The courtiers, the commanders, and his servants had all left him to his thoughts. He sat on the edge of his makeshift throne, staring into the flickering flames of a small fire before him. His face bore the weariness of a thousand decisions, a thousand betrayals, a thousand lost dreams, and yet it was a face that showcased his never-ending determination to continue on.
He took a deep breath, leaning forward, his hand resting on the haft of The Ghast. It was always like this, before a great battle—the quiet moments when even the strongest question their path, their destiny. But Hacktor? Hacktor believed in his destiny with the fervor of a zealot.
His eyes flickered, reflecting the firelight, and for a moment, I could see his memories dance across his gaze. For a moment, Hacktor was no longer there in this tent, on the eve of what he believe would be his greatest victory. Instead he was a boy again, standing in the shadow of his father, Baldur the Bold, watching as the old king held court. Hacktor had been barely more than a child, but even then, he had known power. He had seen way men feared him, the way they bowed before him. That was when Hacktor had learned the most important lesson of all—fear was power.
His thoughts shifted to the moment he claimed his first kill, the moment that had sealed his fate as a warrior. He had been young, perhaps too young, but it had been necessary. General Heraclez had secretly taken Hacktor along with a troop into Gor – unbeknownst to Baldur – on a training mission. Hacktor had been taken to prove his loyalty, his worth. Heraclez’s scouts found an unwary pack of goblins and unleashed their fury upon them. Hacktor did his part then, and he now remembered the feel of the blade in his hand then, the cold steel, the way it had slid through Derkka flesh so easily. The rush of victory, the thrill of bloodshed—it had been intoxicating. And from that moment on, he had been consumed by it. He had become the Drokka warrior, a weapon forged in the fires of conflict.
But it wasn’t enough. It never had been. Hacktor’s ambitions were always greater than his father’s. He hadn’t just wanted to be a king—he wanted to be the king. The ruler of all the Rhokii’s, the one to unite the clans, to stand above them as a living god. And now, with tomorrow’s battle, he would achieve it. The Derkka would fall, and with their defeat, the world would know that Hacktor Derkillez was not just a mortal, not just a king, but a legend.
As his visions continued, Hacktor tightened his grip on The Ghast, his knuckles white. The fire flickered, casting shadows across his face, as if to match the heat of his ambition, the hunger that burned within him. It was all-consuming, a need that would never be sated. He dreamt of victory, of standing atop the corpses of his enemies, the crown of all Rhokii’s, nay the world, placed upon his brow, his name spoken with reverence for all time in The Kronkilz, and beyond!
His thoughts drifted again, but this time to the future. He had for himself—standing at the gates of Rhokki Pass, his people cheering his name, his enemies groveling before him. He imagined the bards singing songs of his greatness, the sculptors carving his likeness into the mountainside. He imagined ruling for decades, his children and grandchildren carrying his legacy forward, the Derkillez name immortalized in stone and song.
But it was not just power that drove him. No, there was something deeper, something darker. Hacktor wanted more than to be a king—he wanted to be… Eternal. In the eyes of his people, in the annals of history, he wanted to transcend mortality itself.
Foolish, foolish mortal!
His vision of the future was so clear in his mind that he could almost taste it. He could see the armies bowing before him, the world itself bending to his will. In his heart, he believed that tomorrow would be the first step toward that future.
And yet, deep down, buried beneath layers of pride and ambition, there was, for a moment at least, fear. The same fear that all mortals carried – the fear of failure, of death, of being forgotten.
But Hacktor shoved that fear aside, as he always did. He told himself that he was stronger than that, greater than that. And perhaps, for a time, he might have been – had I not had other plans for him.
Tomorrow, when the battle began, he would be glorious. He would cut through the Derkka like a god of war, and his men would follow him into the fray, inspired by his strength, his courage. They would believe, for a time, that Hacktor Derkillez was invincible.
But unfortunately for them all – even gods fall.
Yes Hacktor didn’t know that evil was waiting for him. And so he rose from his seat, his eyes burning with determination. Moving to the entrance of the tent, he pulled back the flap, and gazed out at the camp. The fires still burned brightly, the men laughing and sharpening their blades, oblivious to the darkness that loomed.
Hacktor stepped out into the cold night air, his breath misting before him. He raised The Ghast on high, the blade catching the light of the moon, and for a moment, he looked every bit the god he wished to be.
I could hear his thoughts. Tomorrow, I will be king of all kings. Tomorrow, I will be a god.
But I knew better. Hacktor’s Doom awaited…
The Apocrypha of Azazel 